A Darkness Like Mine
by SlytherinPride2292
Summary: (Sequel to Exchange of Power). Sylvia Cobblepot never wanted to be Queen of the Underworld...until that's all she has left. Sylvia's brother, Jim Gordon, is framed for a crime she committed, and Oswald's 'rehabilitation' in Arkham Asylum creates tension in their marriage. Restoration of Gotham's monarchy will come! Rated M for sexual content, coarse language, graphic gore, and etc.
1. Jim Is Free Oswald's Gone

Chapter One: Jim Is Free/ Oswald's Gone

Author's Note: That's right, my lovelies. I'm back! Welcome to the fourth installment of my story! Let me know what you love so far! I'm always happy to hear from you guys.

* * *

Jim sat at the elongated table, dressed in his usual suit. In front of him were many watchful eyes, a pair belonging to one Harvey Dent, the District Attorney of Gotham. A row of other executives, including Jim's legal counsel, sat like a chorus line on each side of him. Between them, sitting in a chair with one hand on the table, the other holding a cane after suffering a major stabbing to the thigh, was Captain Nathaniel Barnes, who watched Jim with a mixed expression of suspicion and resigned appreciation.

Jim was being questioned. Standing outside of the room, keeping his betrothed, Leslie Thompkins, somewhat comfortable was his sister, Sylvia Cobblepot. After Jim had been called in, and before walking into the room, the look of hope shared between the two women was noticeable; but their looks were not for the same reason. Lee wanted this entire thing to be over, and done with. Sylvia's look was reserved for him alone. After all, her future, Lee's, and his own was balanced on his shoulders.

He'd been resigned to knowing this day would come. Sooner or later, Theo Galavan's body was going to be found at the pier; the beaten up, bloodied body, a bullet wound in the head—there's no way that would have gone unnoticed by anyone. He figured he'd be on the stand, answering all of the DA's questions….truthfully? Maybe not.

"After searching the premises, I, as well as Alfred Pennyworth and Selina Kyle, was able to locate the abductee, Bruce Wayne." Jim stated monotonously into the microphone.

Scribbling with his right hand, Harvey Dent was quiet, except during the times when he presented a question or a follow-up inquiry to Jim's statement. After he finished writing down his necessary notes, he asked curiously, "Where was he?"

"Theo Galavan's residence." Jim answered.

"And that's when you opened fire?"

"Yes. We eliminated the threat posed by Father Creel and his men, and were able to recover Bruce Wayne."

"You then left to search for Galavan on your own?"

"Not on my own. No." Jim answered calmly.

"Who else was with you?"

"Sylvia Cobblepot, my sister."

"Just to clarify for our records, your sister _is_ married to Oswald Cobblepot, AKA The Penguin?"

"Yes, sir." Jim grimaced.

"And she came with you to Galavan's residence. Why was she there with you?"

"She heard of Bruce Wayne's predicament and wanted to help."

Dent nodded wordlessly, scribbling that too.

"Did you find Galavan?"

"Yes."

"You detained him?"

"No."

Harvey glanced up: "Why not?"

"Captain Barnes and Officer Vargas arrived and placed me under arrest," Jim answered.

"And did they place Mrs. Cobblepot under arrest too?"

Jim suppressed a smile: "They tried."

"She _resisted_ arrest?"

"Yes. I, however, was detained…."

"That's because at the time of this incident—some four weeks ago—you were a wanted man, a fugitive from the law." Harvey expressed calmly.

"That was a misunderstanding."

"A 'misunderstanding'?" Harvey repeated, smiling.

"Yes. Shortly after Mrs. Cobblepot and I were escorted out of the court room, we were tased unconscious, and then kidnapped where Galavan threatened to end our lives."

"How did you escape that dilemma, then?"

Jim leaned into the microphone and said calmly, "Sir, with all due respect. It's safe to say that while having a ruler of the Underworld for a sister has been nothing more than a pain in my ass, it _does_ certainly reward me with people who are constantly looking after her, and know when something is afoot, especially when three corrupted officers take their leader and brother—blindfolded—to a pier."

Harvey considered this statement with little to no expression, and continued his questionnaire: "What happened next?"

"After I was placed under arrest, Oswald Cobblepot and two of his associates arrived, rendered Officer Vargas and Captain Barnes unconscious."

"Was Sylvia included?"

"No. Just two other men that worked for him."

"What happened after?"

"Oswald Cobblepot and his associates escaped with Galavan."

"You then pursued Cobblepot and his men, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did your sister escape with them?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Honestly, sir, I haven't the slightest idea," Jim returned truthfully. "I can't say why she didn't go with him. She has an unflinching loyalty towards Cobblepot. It's really irritating, actually."

Harvey suppressed the urge to smile. After a moment, he asked, "Were you able to locate them?"

"No."

"At which point you decided to flee the city before law enforcement could question you?"

"Yes, and for that, I have no excuse…other than to say that I was concerned for the safety of my fiancée. She had informed me earlier that day that she was pregnant."

"Congratulations." Harvey said sincerely.

"Thank you."

"For the record," Harvey stated factually to the other executives around him, "Sylvia Cobblepot _did_ come to the precinct on her own free will where she was questioned—during this time, she stated that she was not involved in the murder of Theo Galavan. Detective Gordon, since you are under Oath at this given time, you're in such a position to corroborate her story...or offer us a different testimony."

Jim was quiet for a second, before he leaned into the microphone and said calmly, "Let's be honest. My sister is a known trouble maker—she's been detained countless times, and we _all_ " (He glanced to Barnes included) "know that where the law is concerned, she is apathetic. She's guilty of a lot of things, but…In all good conscience, I can testify that Sylvia was not involved in Theo Galavan's murder."

Harvey nodded, scribbling a few more notes. He then placed his pen to the side, interlaced his fingers on the table, and looked at Jim seriously: "Detective Gordon, within hours of your encounter, Theo Galavan was found beaten and shot to death. Were you present at the time of his murder?"

"No, I was not."

"Do you have any information regarding the case that you have not shared with us?"

"No, I do not."

"Detective, did you have anything to do with the murder of Theo Galavan?" Harvey questioned.

Jim hesitated.

Harvey said sternly, "Detective, answer the question. Were you involved in Theo Galavan's murder?"

"No, I was not." Jim said finally, his throat a little hoarse but otherwise firm.

* * *

Lee paced the large corridor, her heels clicking against the mirror-like tile. Meanwhile, Sylvia leaned casually against the wall with her arms crossed. She looked up at the sun-stained glass ceiling, slowly breathing through her nose and out her mouth while Lee continued to pace. After a moment, she moved forward, grabbing Lee's wrist, and pulled her back.

"You're annoying me with that clatter," Sylvia told her with forced calm. "Would you try sitting down or something?"

"He's been in there a long time." Lee whispered, pressing her lips firmly together.

"Of course he has. They don't want to leave any stone unturned. No tree, uncut. No flower, unpicked."

"I don't think that last was a saying."

"You get my drift though," said Sylvia, rolling her shoulders back as Lee took a seat on the bench. "Jim has gotten into a lot worse scrapes than this. He's walking out of this, easy."

"Because he says he didn't kill Galavan. What if they don't believe him?"

"Then he'll go to Black Gate. _Not_ hard to understand."

Lee sent her a strict glare before Sylvia raised her hands up in surrender.

"He's not going to jail, Lee. He didn't kill Galavan."

"You know that for a fact?"

"He says he didn't, right? Don't you believe him?"

"Of course, I do."

"Well, there's your answer," Sylvia replied, sitting beside her. "Find some faith for your man, girl. He's not going to flat out lie to you. I mean, running out of Gotham with two suitcases might have been a little overreacting but I think—on the whole—he's was pretty calm through it all. And the people will see that" (she gestured to the room in which the mediocrity was questioning Jim Gordon) "and both of you will be vindicated."

"You deal with this kind of thing everyday, don't you?" Lee asked.

"Yep. It's a lifestyle at this point."

"So," She said quietly, looking at Sylvia through a cool gaze. "Where's Oswald Cobblepot throughout all of this?"

"Don't know."

"What do you mean you 'don't know'?"

"What it exactly means. I really don't know," Sylvia answered—that flippant tone was back again.

Lee heard that chink of sarcasm more frequently these past couple of weeks. She didn't know Sylvia as well as Jim or Oswald did, but having a little bit of psychology trauma work under her belt seemed to pay off more in Gotham than anywhere else. Lee knew enough about her fiancé's sister—knew that Sylvia used biting sarcasm and dark humor to cover up what was really buried just beneath the surface: fear.

Lee blinked saying, "Your husband is out there—somewhere—and you're not panicking?"

"I never said I'm _not_ panicking," Sylvia countered. "But…Oswald is a survivor. He can make it through anything." (Her tone shifted to one of support instead of self-assurance.) "Now, if I were _you_ , I'd be hoping this whole trial thingy ends soon. The longer he stays in there, answering questions, the longer you'll start wondering how innocent your boy is."

Lee glared at her: "You just told me he didn't do it."

"No, I said you're _supposed_ to think he didn't do it. **He** told you he didn't. _I_ believe he didn't. So, _you_ should believe he didn't kill Galavan." Sylvia reminded smoothly. "Courts always did make me a little sick, though. The order, the style, the traditional antiquity—it's enough to make a girl like me wanna tunnel through the floor to China."

Lee rolled her eyes. That was until the door opened and out came Jim, who looked more or less relieved that the whole situation was done and over with. As Lee and Jim embraced, grateful for one another, Sylvia crossed her arms casually in front of her, smirking at them. After the embrace naturally broke, Jim turned to Sylvia.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well, nothing, Vee." Jim said, smiling. "All charges against me have been lifted and I've been reinstated."

He put an arm around both Sylvia and Lee, and they walked out of the court room.

"Are you sure you want this?" Lee asked. "After everything this job has put us through?"

Jim glanced up at the banister where Capt Barnes and Harvey Dent looked down at the three of them. Sylvia narrowed her eyes at them before Jim pulled her forward, forcing her to break eye contact. Lee noticed the oddity of their presence.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Is that it?" Lee asked uncertainly.

"Yeah. I'm just tired."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Jim, Lee, and Sylvia were outside of the court house, getting ready to leave. Lee sat in the passenger seat, while Jim stopped by Sylvia's black Mustang. As she climbed into the driver's seat, Jim politely closed her door and then after glancing coolly at Lee—sending her a fair smile back—he turned to his sister.

"How'd the trial go?" Sylvia asked.

"It wasn't a trial."

"I know. But I figured I could be the one to ask you this time around."

Jim allowed himself a small smile. He could always count of her to spread some cheer. Jim leaned into the window, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It was meaningful, and warm.

"Do they suspect anything?"

"If they did," said Jim, straightening. "They didn't ask."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth."

"The real truth?"

"No," Jim stated, his jaw hardening. "But the truth I gave them will be enough."

"What truth is that?"

"You weren't involved."

Sylvia smiled this time. It reached her eyes.

Jim rarely saw that look, and he felt a part of him become closer to his sister, closer this time around than any other time he'd ever spoken to her. What could reinforce a loving bond between the formerly estranged siblings than a dark, crooked secret?

"Thank you, Jimmy."

"Well, I'd rather you not go to jail for the fiftieth time—before you're forty." Jim said half-seriously.

"I never went to jail."

"You've gone to Juvie."

"Not the same, trust me."

"I have to thank you, you know."

"For?"

"Doing what you did. You're right. It would have changed me."

"I know it would have." Sylvia said, nodding as she started the car. "That's why I didn't leave it up to you. For what it's worth, you may very well kill someone. It's inevitable for you, natural. I just didn't want your first time to be with someone like Galavan."

"Without context, Vee, that sounds really perverted."

"With context, it still _is_ perverted," She returned, winking at him. "But it wouldn't be me, if it wasn't."

A few drops of water dotted the windshield. For once, it was sunny in Gotham. But that didn't keep the rain forecast at bay. Jim glanced up, squinting his eyes. With the rain would come a monsoon—if the storm grates didn't do their job, the Gothamites would be looking at a flash flood. The Homeless would be burrowing under whatever rock they slept during the night...maybe a cardboard box.

Jim looked at Sylvia somberly.

"You don't know where he is?"

"I don't," She said, knowing just who Jim was referring to.

"He didn't give you any details?"

"I told you before. One night, I woke up, and he was gone. Just gave me a letter. I still have it in my possession if you want to read it."

She fidgeted her fingers around the steering wheel; the leather squeaked with her unsettled motions.

"Do you want me to track him down?"

"No."

"As your brother…."

"I said 'no'." She said firmly. "Oswald specifically stated that he didn't want to be found. Not by police. Not by me. He's distancing us so when he's found, I won't be suspected of harboring him. That's the first thing Barnes will accuse me of doing—he's looking for any excuse to put me behind bars after what happened in Galavan's penthouse."

Jim peered over his shoulder at Lee, who watched him expectantly. A short conversation was turning into a serious one. It had been four weeks since Sylvia and Oswald had been seen together. After Sylvia killed Galavan, all three of them had decided their story, sticking to it as best they could. Jim knew Oswald would do his part—Sylvia was their prime concern, to keep her safe from the law; both men would lie out of their asses and even go to Black Gate before they saw Sylvia go.

What Jim didn't expect was for Oswald to suddenly disappear. For weeks, Jim thought Sylvia knew…evidently, she knew as much as he. That was barely nothing.

Sylvia's uncharacteristically soft voice, the way her eyes watered and the fidgeting of her hands on the steering wheel; those were tell-tale signs that she was worried. She wouldn't say it—goddamn, she was just as stubborn and in denial as Jim could be sometimes—but she was scared for Oswald.

"I'll be right back." Jim whispered. He reached his arm through the window, wrapping it around her shoulders in a half-stretched hug and then kissed her forehead.

"Okay."

Jim left briefly to Lee's car. He conversed with her for only a minute. Lee appeared resigned, but a little too understanding. She understood: Jim wanted to be there for his little sister…for once, he'd make sure that he was.

After they kissed each other good-bye, Jim sat in Sylvia's passenger seat, and together, they headed towards the Falcone Mansion—dubbed the Cobblepot Mansion.

* * *

Jim had to tip his hat off to his sister.

Even with Cobblepot on the lam, his disappearance having lasted for almost a full month, Sylvia certainly had a control of things. This was noticed by Jim when he got out of the car; the first person to meet them on the sidewalk was Monsieur Bell, who was both the master chef and Head Butler, but also Sylvia's physical trainer, Sensei, and—more times than not—her bookkeeper.

Mr. Bell was a great deal larger than Sylvia, standing at least two feet higher than she—and a foot higher than Jim. His biceps were the size of Sylvia's thighs, and with such a straight back posture, he looked even taller than he really was. He wore tuxedos, steam pressed, sharp creases, and he made going bald look like a fine art—something Victor Zsasz, the professional hitman, could only but admire.

Jim nodded dutifully to Mr. Bell, who eyed him suspiciously, but allowed Jim to pass him, following Sylvia up the sidewalk to the mansion. When they entered, two brutes named Dagger and Chilly, nodded silently towards their direction. Sylvia greeted them with a 'hey, guys' and they returned, "hey, Liv". Contrary to how Oswald ran things, Jim noticed a vastly big difference: She was informal.

Dagger and Chilly were indebted to Sylvia, so to speak. Jim didn't know their true names, only their aliases. And no matter how curious Jim became, Sylvia would not relinquish the information to him or anyone else in the GCPD. Just as they were protective of her; she was as protective of them.

That's how she ran things—they saved each other.

Jim continued walking closely to Sylvia, lest one of her minions decided he was a narc. In many ways, he was. After the debacle during the gala where Oswald had attempted to kill Galavan (the second time in history, but the first time he legitimately tried), Jim was keen and all too informed that his own police officers had wiped out Sylvia and Oswald's men….including several of Sylvia's employees, to whom she referred lovingly as her 'kiddos'. Since then, they had been operating at minimum capacity.

But Jim wasn't too shocked to see that there was a full house. Again.

Men and women that he didn't recognize, all wearing black leather pants and jackets—the women wore similar garb—stood, talking loudly to each other, holding drinks in their hands, shining and oiling their weapons on the elongated table in the Meeting Room. It was the same room in which Jim and Oswald had regularly conducted business 'under the table'…Boy, what Jim would give to bring back _those_ days.

"Ignore them," Sylvia said dismissively as she moved past the rabble.

"Should I be concerned?"

"Hm. Now you sound like Oswald." She chuckled, but didn't answer the question.

Jim cleared his throat when one of the meatier thugs glared daggers at him. Some of them certainly despised any officers—no matter the fact that he was related to their leader. Sylvia stopped in front of her office where a blonde woman resided; doe-eyed and curvaceous, the woman looked more like a receptionist than a bloodthirsty assassin.

"Brittany." Sylvia called coolly.

The blonde named Brittany stopped flipping through the charts inside a cabinet, and starkly straightened, glancing over her shoulder to see Sylvia standing in the doorway, a stern expression transfixed on her face. Jim wasn't sure whether to stay put for Brittany's safety, or duck out since Sylvia might very well commit a crime in front of him.

"Sorry, Mrs. Cobblepot." She apologized quickly, placing a vanilla-colored file behind her back. "One of the Andersons—the-the youngest one...He wanted a file on…." Brittany stopped talking when she recognized who stood behind Sylvia. "Mrs. Cobblepot?"

Sylvia strode inside.

"Come in, Jim. Have a seat," Sylvia sighed, gesturing to the arm chair in front of her desk. She spoke to him, but didn't look at him. Instead, she eyed Brittany warily, as though she'd had this conversation (whatever it was) with the young woman a hundred of times already.

Jim slowly and cautiously took a seat in the chair, holding the arms with some vitality. He glanced curiously at Brittany, who gulped between breaths as Sylvia approached her. She took Brittany by the arm, and snatched the discreet vanilla-colored folder from her, then uttered darkly into her ear.

Brittany's expression faltered from anxiety to that of fear.

"Do I make myself clear?" Sylvia questioned.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Consider this a warning, hm? I know you're just trying to do your job, but…." Sylvia sat at her desk, smiling kindly at her. "You forget that the Andersons don't decide what we do. _I_ do. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good."

Brittany quickly walked to the door; her head was bowed. That was until she stood in the doorway, biting her lip nervously.

"What do I tell—"

"If they want something from me," Sylvia said coolly. "They will ask _me_. They will not ask my staff. But you know, I know what the Andersons do when they get bad news, so don't bother telling them anything. Tell them to wait for me, and I will tell them what they need to know."

"Yes….Yes, ma'am," Brittany squeaked. Though she appeared frightened, there was a small exhale of relief that came out of her, knowing Sylvia was going to take care of delivering the bad news and it might have just spared her life.

"Please close the door on your way out."

Brittany did as she was asked.

Jim turned to Sylvia curiously. Sylvia lifted the file indicatively. On the tab read his name.

"You have a file on me?" Jim questioned indignantly.

"Not officially. It's the same file Loeb gave you and Harvey Bullock when you used his homely daughter against him."

"Why do _you_ have it?"

"Feeling paranoid, Jimmy?"

"No. Just a little insulted," Jim grumbled.

"Your file has made quite the trail. First it was Loeb's. Then it was yours. Someone sneaked into your apartment and got it. For a while, it was passed between the Five Families, to include the Drays, the Maronis, the Paddocks, and the Belichs." Sylvia said listlessly. "When I found that out, I was generous enough to get it back in my hands before the Andersons could get ahold of it."

Jim frowned.

"Don't look so grumpy. There's nothing in it to bedazzle the coins out of the Underworld." She reassured dryly. "You'd be surprised how little the Families know about you."

"Why does that make me feel less assured?"

"Probably because it's coming out of my mouth."

"You're not wrong there."

Sylvia placed the file back in the cabinet, saying, "You'd have to excuse Brittany. She's fairly new. Doesn't know how to handle the Families when they get a little rambunctious. She's a people-pleaser, twenty-four-seven. It's good for business in the club—not for business in the Underworld."

"She seemed apologetic enough."

"She's still learning."

"Is she your new 'kiddo'?"

Sylvia smirked. "Well, I've had to rebuild my crew ever since _your_ kiddos took mine out."

"They're the Strike Force. They're Barnes' people, not mine."

"But you orchestrated the team," Sylvia said, wagging a finger at him. "So, you're basically Dad."

"Ugh. How are you able to pervert everything?"

"I'm a woman with a high metabolism and an unusually overly active sex drive. Everything's dirty to me." Sylvia returned with a promising smile. She added seriously, "It's taken me a lot of time to get over the deaths of all the people you've laid to slaughter—sorry, not _you_ , just your GCPD—but I've realized that with destruction comes an opportunity to rebuild and recast. Brittany is full of unlocked potential; once she stops panhandling to the Families and realize that _I'm_ in charge, she'll get better."

"And Dagger and Chilly?"

"Still loyal as ever."

"How do you find these people again?"

"I don't take resumes," She answered nonchalantly. "I'm actually surprised I've been able to accrue these many employees, to be honest."

"They like your management style."

"Or they like a pretty face. Or they like the money. I'm not cheap, you know. Either way, it gives me employees."

"Things get a little lonely here without Oswald, I imagine."

"Jimmy, you don't want to know what I do on the nights I'm lonely. I'd hate for that image to get stuck in your head." Sylvia lamented, smirking at him. "But you've got a point. Oswald had a certain charisma that I lack. He could get people to work for him—no kindness needed. And I didn't have to work nearly as hard, or talk to the Families nearly as much. But I think with my level of affluence, I don't have to worry about people betraying me. Most of them will gladly stab me in the face before they go behind my back."

"Comforting."

"Not even."

Sylvia sat back in her chair, lazily opening a drawer.

Out of instinct, Jim straightened and put his hand over the holster that sheathed his gun. Sylvia raised her eyebrows, and quickly held up a hand, smirking when Jim relaxed as he saw a pack of cigarettes in it.

"Relax, James." She sighed. "I'm not going to kill you. Just because I'm ruling the roost doesn't mean I'm going to off my kin. Do you have a lighter on you, by any chance?"

Jim rolled his eyes but he pulled one out of the pocket of his inner jacket saying with slight annoyance, "I don't see why you don't just keep one here."

"It's not like it's fucking chap stick—a chap stick for the bedroom, one for work, one for the purse—it's a goddamn lighter," Sylvia said, licking her lips as she placed a single cigarette stick between her lips. She took the lighter from him gratefully, uttering a small noise of thanks, and then flicked it until an ember rose.

"I thought you gave up smoking." Jim said coolly.

"Don't judge me," Sylvia said after she inhaled a deep drag. "I can't run an empire drunk—this seemed like the best alternative."

"It'll age you."

"So will stress. Guess I'll be looking sixty when I'm forty." She gestured to him. "So, what'd you tell Lee?"

"You wanted to talk."

"That's lame."

"Well, it's true, right?" He offered, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the desk. "With all this" (He gestured around the office) "and your cronies sitting and amusing themselves in all of the rooms, I'm surprised you'd want me around here."

Sylvia flicked the tip of her cigarette in the marble ash tray, muttering, "It beats the hell out of talking in the monsoon. This storm is gonna be a bad one."

"It's always a bad one."

"Flash floods, Jim."

"It's not breaking news. Gotham has terrible weather."

"You're not wrong. And the people are going to suffer for it. Speaking of which, you wanted to see the letter?"

"You're going to let me read it?"

Sylvia bit her lip.

"Let's have an understanding, shall we? I wouldn't betray Oswald. He's my husband, and I love him. But you're a great detective. And while he's left me nothing to go on, to figure out where he is or how he's doing, I'm kind of hoping you'll be able to figure it out."

"Figure out what?"

"Anything." She admitted, exhaling smoke through her nose and mouth.

She stood up slowly, walked over to a bookcase that was more than stuffed with the obvious. Jim furrowed his eyebrows when she lifted a book filled with French literature—all written and could only be read in its language—and walked back to the desk. She sat in her throne, and handed it to him.

"What…."

"Page 123."

Jim nodded and turned to the page. In between the pages of the French literature was a single hand-written letter on college-ruled notebook paper. He took it out, and looked up curiously at Sylvia.

"Why is it here? I thought you said you had it on you."

"I said I had it in my possession. Not technically a lie. I'm getting pretty good at it, aren't I?"

Jim let out a sigh of exasperation then glanced at the pages of the book: "Is this where you found the letter?"

"Yes."

"How did he know you'd come across it?"

"I've been learning French," Sylvia returned.

Jim stared at her. A silent question of 'why'.

"He knows French," Sylvia returned, shrugging her shoulders. "He's an intelligent man, if you've never noticed, James. I got him beat at physical prowess—I was hoping to stand on his level with intellect."

"I thought Mr. Bell was teaching you sign language."

"I've mastered it." Sylvia said, smirking at him. "Now I want a new challenge."

"Learning Sign Language wasn't enough for you? Being a hand-to-hand combat fanatic wasn't enough?" Jim questioned ironically.

"Stop judging me, and read the damn letter."

"Fine, fine. Why this page?" Jim asked, looking at the number in particular.

"He's sentimental," Sylvia sighed as she put the cigarette out in the ashtray with finality.

"It's a date?"

"Yes."

"Regarding?"

Sylvia grinned broadly. "It's the first day we made love."

"If it wasn't for the fact you're my sister and you just told me that, I'd think it was really sweet," Jim muttered, closing his eyes as though he just had shampoo fall into them.

He took the letter out of the folded crease and closed the book, certain that Sylvia wouldn't forget the page number. Now he wouldn't be able to, either.

The writing itself was concise, neat, and the lettering was bold. Not written in haste—and for all of Oswald's characteristics, he'd have written the letter calmly. There was no date on the top, not even a signature at the bottom. Jim read the letter aloud:

"' _My heart,_

 _We both know how this will end. One of us is going to Black Gate while the other stands on the outside, looking in—I can't imagine either situation will be pleasant. I'm sure you've already decided in which situation you will be._

 _For now, there needs to be distance. People know us, by now. They know we are never one without the other, and while I would not have it any other way, it's finally come full circle._

 _Once I'm found and the police have caught me, I need to know you will not be involved in my arrest._

 _I won't say where I have gone because I know you'll come looking for me. Please, for once, do as I say. And stay. I need to make sure you are safe, and if that means putting as much distance between us, then that's what I'll do._

 _You are my heart. You always have been, and always will be._

 _I love you,_

 _Forever Yours._ '"

Jim looked up at Sylvia who was blindly staring ember cinders through her desk until Jim cleared his throat, bringing her attention back to him.

"He left in the middle of the night?" Jim asked, handing Sylvia back the letter.

"Yes," She answered hoarsely, placing it back in the leaflet of the French literature. "I went to bed. In the middle of the night, I realized he wasn't sleeping beside me. I didn't find the letter until a couple days after."

Thunder rolled outside of the mansion; a flash of lightning lit up the dark cloudy sky. Sylvia sighed shakily, taking out another cigarette. She used Jim's lighter, and then placed the stick in her mouth, deeply dragging before allowing a slow, steady exhale to leave her lips. Jim watched her curiously.

"I've never seen you so worked up before," Jim pointed out.

"Well, I've never really had to panic."

"Oswald's been in trouble before."

"Not like this."

"Maroni tried to crush him alive in a Sedan."

"Well, that was _Maroni_ ," Sylvia snapped, smacking her hand on the desk. "This isn't someone trying to kill him, this is Oswald being….being _Oswald_."

"He doesn't want to see you get hurt," Jim offered calmly.

"Jim…." Sylvia uttered dangerously, as she closed her eyes in irritation.

She opened them and Jim looked at her empathetically.

" _I_ killed Galavan. I shot him in the head. I watched him die. And so far, _you've_ been questioned and even nearly had your license revoked, and my husband is out on the streets, living like a fucking **bum**!"

Jim raised his hands level to her.

"I'm not getting any kind of justification."

"You _want_ to go to Black Gate?" Jim questioned incredulously.

"I'm not talking about that kind of justice."

"Good…You were starting to worry me there."

"My marriage is strong enough to withstand a lot of things, but I personally can't sleep knowing my husband is out there on the streets, acting like a homeless person!" Sylvia said shakily. "What if he's getting mugged, or attacked by some dirty hoodlum? We both know he can't physically defend himself—I'm his fucking bodyguard for crying out loud."

"I thought you were his 'Queen'."

"A bit of both, asshole—you chose a good time to poke holes with your technicalities."

"Vee, breathe."

Sylvia stood up suddenly and paced the room.

"Galavan is _dead_ ," She growled, glaring daggers out the window. "So why **the hell** am I still suffering by his hand?"

"Oswald will come back."

"Yeah, in handcuffs. Not exactly a comforting thought."

"Better than him ending up dead."

"Not getting any better, Jim—your bedside manner is lacking. Maybe you just take a leaflet out of Lee's book," Sylvia said irritably.

"You know, I can't ever tell if you're Oswald's wife or his mother."

Sylvia turned to look at Jim, who eyed her warily. Did he step over a boundary? He was certain he did until she cracked a smile. Still...not that comforting.

"So fine." Sylvia admitted quietly, as she took another drag from her cigarette. "I mother him. That's what people think—so be it. But I can't help it. He brings out a protective urge in me…."

"But he's your husband."

"I know. I don't understand it myself. One moment, he's a strong, virile criminal mastermind with all the power at his fingertips…And in another moment, he's this person that I feel the need to nurture and protect."

Jim rolled his eyes: "That can't be helpful."

"You don't feel the same way about Lee?"

"Can't say I have. It's kind of weird, Vee."

"Sorry, but not all of us can be hard-shelled studs all the fucking time," Sylvia said, looking at him coldly. "If you showed any ounce of sentimentality, maybe Lee would feel the same way about you. You're always running straight into the abyss—hoping you'll find yourself in a dark crevice somewhere to unleash your killer instinct...I wonder if maybe you're just trying to find a room to lock yourself in so you could break down and cry. I mean, that's all I ever want to do anymore!"

Sylvia sat down at her desk, roughly. The chair squeaked from her sudden intrusion, and she outed the cigarette in the ash tray none too ceremoniously. Jim stared at her, not because he wasn't used to getting chewed out by his little sister, but because she was finally revealing to him what she'd been hiding from the rest of the world.

She was tired. She was stressed. Sylvia was one of the best leaders of the Underworld Gotham could ever ask for, but when it came down to it—she never wanted to wear the crown. The burden of running the kingdom was weighing heavily on her shoulders.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Vee." Jim said softly, touching her arm and massaging it gently. "You're digging your grave."

"My mother-in-law's funeral is next week," Sylvia uttered weakly. "My kiddos are six feet under. My husband is _literally_ on the streets, and I am constantly looking over my shoulder. The empire Oz and I built is all I have left, Jimmy. If I lose that, then going after Galavan and everything he put us through will have been for nothing."

Jim pressed his lips tightly together, frustration eating him out of house and home.

"Why are you looking over your shoulder?"

"There are always people who think they can rule Gotham's underbelly better. And they're waiting for me to slip up."

"Like who?"

Sylvia glanced through the office door window, seeing all the faces of people who worked for her and laughing together over drinks.

" _All_ of them."


	2. A Family Meeting

Chapter Two: A Family Meeting

* * *

Sylvia sat at the head of the table inside the Meeting Room. A month of sitting in Oswald's throne, and she still wasn't quite used to it.

The Authoritarian ruler of Gotham's Underworld…seemed pretty impressive to anyone on the outside looking in, but Sylvia couldn't deny that her nerves were on the grind. She might have gone through a pack of cigarettes in a day—if it wasn't for Mr. Bell hiding them from her.

She called a meeting with the Five Families, knowing full well that all would attend. For now, she was inwardly grateful that Mr. Bell had suggested keeping them in the living room—so the Meeting Room could be her own private quarters as she gathered her thoughts.

In a charming suit and tie—contrary to his usual tuxedo—Mr. Bell placed in front of Sylvia a glass of iced tea with a shot of lemon vodka, and a thick black notebook that he'd updated in the past two months that recorded the debts all families and other less than fortunate homebodies owed to her. He stood behind her, feeling both protective of his Mistress as well as selfishly perusing the fireplace to warm his chilly buttocks.

Standing on either side of the double doors in the room were Dagger and Chilly. Both men wore black suits with red ties. Dagger was the bouncer of sorts; his role was pretty self-explanatory. Chilly, who owed his life to Sylvia (after blowing fifty grand that originally belonged to Falcone) continued paying his debts to her by enforcing the cool factor: everyone had to maintain some type of civility, otherwise they'd get a bruise. Gabriel, who'd originally worked for Maroni, stood next to Chilly, having a conversation about gambling and how much it would take to buy the entirety of Gotham City.

Brittany was in the living room, offering beverages to the guests. While she had that curvaceous, blonde beauty, often times wearing every color of the rainbow, every male and female knew better than to try anything. Brittany was ditsy, beautiful, naive—but she was ultimately Sylvia's to protect. And, god have mercy on anyone who dared hurt her.

While Brittany was serving as a bartender of sorts, Delilah was Sylvia's eyes-and-ears. Delilah was five-foot-ten, wore a lot of Gothic-themed clothes, and she had a long, detailed dragon tattoo that wrapped around her back and torso. With dark chocolate hair, and amber eyes, she was beautiful but fierce. As good of a talker she could be, Sylvia valued her more for listening in on people's conversations. A good listener, indeed.

Both women had heard of Sylvia Cobblepot. Knew she was protective of her people. Tough, but fair. Delilah and Brittany had both come to the club, _Lean on Vee_ 's, thinking it was still owned and run by Fish Mooney. A year spent outside of Gotham made all the difference, and they were surprised to learn that the Umbrella Boy's squeeze had been running things. Delilah and Brittany were at first surprised and disappointed….but Sylvia had something of a reputation that proceeded her. In many ways, she was compared to Fish Mooney. Both management style, and charisma.

And they loved her for it.

Needless to say, both girls were eager to prove themselves. Delilah was an immediate success. Brittany…was still learning.

The ladies, Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, and Mr. Bell made up Sylvia's inner circle. The others…for now…would have to prove their loyalty, for Sylvia was not so quick to trust. At least, not anymore.

"This is it?" Sylvia asked quietly, flipping through the thick lined papers within the black book.

"It's been updated," Mr. Bell said lowly, nodding behind her. He faced the fireplace, holding out his hands to the heat, rubbing them briskly. "The numbers are as high as they've ever been."

"I'm sure they were supposed to be higher."

"After the ordeal with Galavan, things have been unsettled."

"I took _care_ of Galavan. Things should be settled by _now_."

"People are talking, my lady." Mr. Bell sighed disappointedly. "Trying to stir the pot."

"Who?"

"Delilah has the names. I just know there are rumors. You'd want to crush the rumors—that _is_ why you're having the meeting, aren't you?" He asked, turning to her, forgetting the heat.

"One of many reasons."

Sylvia scooted her chair back. Mr. Bell pulled it to the side so she freely stood and he scooted it back into the table. He watched her briefly pace the floor; her flats were noiseless along the wooden tiles. Wearing a black knee-high skirt, fish net stockings, laced up boots, and a V-neck black camisole, Sylvia's naked arms and legs provided a noticeable exposure—but Sylvia was very well guarded. Despite the cool air inside the mansion, Sylvia was hot under the collar (literally and figuratively speaking).

"Galavan punched a hole through the empire, big enough for other people to jump in and try to take a part for themselves," Sylvia said coolly. She lazily picked up the glass of tea, drank from it for a moment, and placed it back on its wooden coaster.

"You're bringing that control back, then?"

"Yes."

"By having a meeting?"

"By establishing new expectations," Sylvia answered stoically. After, she ran her tongue over her teeth, adding, "You put way too much sugar in this."

"I can make another."

"No need. It's fine." She waved her hands at him dismissively but gave him an apologetic smile. "I never specified how much sugar to put in it. It's delicious, either way."

"What's with the grimace then?"

"I can taste it on my teeth."

"Are you sure you don't want me to remake it?"

"No, this will do." Sylvia insisted pleasantly. She took another sip. "It's probably better I have the extra sugar. I feel like it's going to be a long day."

"The meeting is all that's on your agenda for the day, my lady."

"Yes, but that's my morning."

"Meaning?"

"I have a meeting with the commissioner," Sylvia answered, a tinge of annoyance barely grazed the surface, but Mr. Bell, who knew his protege, heard it in her voice. "He's been insistent. I meet with him in the afternoon."

"I can prolong the meeting."

"Don't bother. After I speak with the heads of the Families, I'll be talking to _him_. I've put him off for as long as I can—If I continue to do so, it'll just look like I've been avoiding him."

"It's a meeting about….?"

"His dirty cops."

"He only gets a 10% take. His cops personally get only what you allow them to receive. Those were the established terms," Mr. Bell reminded curiously. "What else is there to discuss? It'd be redundant to have the meeting. Are you _sure_ you don't want me to go in your stead?"

"As charismatic and capable you've proven to be, Mr. Bell, he's made it clear to me that he doesn't want to talk to you," Sylvia said, crossing one arm over her chest while the other lied on top of it as she held her glass. "He wants to talk to me. No one else."

"For?"

"He wants to renegotiate terms."

"Because of Galavan's interference?"

"No. The only thing Galavan has interfered with was Oswald's mind. Dangling Gertrud's life in front of him made him weaker. Easier to control. These people" (Sylvia gestured outside to the people who were waiting for her, and to imply the Commissioner) "think that I'm weak…weak because I don't have Oswald with me. Bless their hearts—they're sorely mistaken."

Mr. Bell allowed a small proud smile to grace his rough features as he said happily, "I'm more than pleased to hear you say that."

Sylvia drank the rest of her tea, and handed the empty glass to him.

"A Queen is a Queen, with or without her King," She sighed. She glanced into the fire place and muttered, "Even if she never truly wanted the throne, she'd defend it, the King, and herself—right down to the bitter end."

"That's poetic." Mr. Bell offered, smiling sadly. "Shakespearean, really."

"Thank you. I made it up on the spot."

"Would you like another tea?"

"Please."

"Less sugar?"

"More of it, actually. That was pretty damn good."

"How about a lemon?"

"Don't bother with the lemon."

"Vodka?"

"Please, Monsieur."

Mr. Bell nodded with a sinful smile. He rounded the table, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Sylvia turned from the fireplace, looking to him in response.

"For what it's worth, I couldn't see anyone else that could do the job half as well as you could." Mr. Bell reassured.

"I can." She admitted quietly, smiling sadly as she glanced at the throne. "I can think of another person who could do this job with his hands tied behind his back."

"He's fine, I'm sure."

"I know he is." She looked at Mr. Bell squarely in the eye. "But that doesn't keep me from worrying about him."

Mr. Bell was well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, French, German, and sign language. But for all his tactical advances, and gentlemanly persona, he couldn't find the right words to comfort his Mistress. Perhaps there was no room for comfort. Realizing this, Mr. Bell lifted the empty glass, saying, "I'll be getting that tea for you now, my lady."

" _Merci._ "

Mr. Bell left shortly after her whispered thanks. Still, she continued to stare into the fireplace.

How many times had she come into this very room, and see Oswald doing this very thing? Staring into a fireplace, searching the glowing embers for an answer that wouldn't come. Her questions had been answered already, but that didn't stop her from searching for new ones—answers she wanted to hear, rather than the ones that she'd already accepted with great disappointment.

Running an empire wasn't easy, even with Oswald by her side. Or maybe, with her by _his_ side. In all fairness, Sylvia never wanted to rule. She hadn't believed she could—running a club seemed far-fetched, but then she was given Mooney's club, and she'd run that sucker so well! Money was pouring in, the business was doing greater than ever, even when Mooney was running things.

Still though.

Delegating tasks to the underlings, walking around Gotham, doing rounds…that wasn't her cup of tea. Sylvia much preferred to be the one operating on the ground, not in a tower. Mr. Bell could offer her that reassurance, that she was doing a superb job at running things….to his credit, it helped knowing people were looking up to her, but it made the responsibility to never fail that much heavier.

"Come home, Oz." Sylvia mumbled, closing her eyes.

One hand on the mantle, her thumb rubbing the white-painted, marble edges.

She couldn't care if he came home and she was arrested for harboring and abetting a known criminal. She'd gotten into worse scrapes than that, survived them, and was proud of it. Being away from him served to be a lot more painful than any sentence to Black Gate could have ever been.

"Mrs. Cobblepot?" squeaked a voice.

Sylvia blinked, straightened her back, and turned to see Brittany standing half-way between the two double doors that led to the living room. Her body from the waist up was leaned forward to talk to Sylvia privately, while the other half was planted firmly in the living room.

"Yes?"

"How much…How much longer are you going to be? They're getting impatient."

"Would it be too bold to tell them that I'm waiting for my glass of tea?" Sylvia said half-seriously.

Brittany blinked, uncertain whether Sylvia was being humorous or she was actually serious. The dilemma of laughing when she could have and laughing when she shouldn't had given Brittany the twitches, evident by the way her left eye tweaked a little.

"I was joking," Sylvia reassured.

"Oh, ha…." Brittany nervously laughed. "Well, I…."

"Just let them in. Have the wolves come. There's no point in making them wait any longer, is there?"

"I suppose not."

Brittany opened the doors. All of the families were there. However, because this was a meeting for only the Heads of the Families, the invited had only brought their bodyguards—that was about two people per Head.

The Andersons' Head was originally the Don, but because the Don was retiring soon, he'd allowed his son, Drake, to come for the meeting. He was a great deal taller than Sylvia—he was nearly six feet whereas she was barely 5 feet. He'd once tried crossing Sylvia before, and it provided a comedic scene that his family would never live down. Being yelled at halfway across the room by someone who was nearly half his size was a memory no one planned on forgetting anytime soon.

Drake Anderson was probably the most aggressive of the Five Families, and that was if you included the Maronis.

Since their boss had been shot dead in a garage by Fish Mooney, they had to scramble for the next made man. The lucky soul just so happened to be Sal Maroni's next kin, his niece, Maria. But Maria was a lot like Falcone's son in that regard. Like Mario Falcone, Maria insisted on not becoming a part of the trade. After Maria's declination, the job of being Don fell to Maroni's Uncle: Ron.

Just as the name suggested, the man was simple. Ron Maroni was pushing into his late forties, but thanks to a life history of smoking big, drinking big, and just general bad eating habits, he looked like a 50-year-old Semi-Truck tire: big and round. Compared to his brother, Ron wasn't a fella who could move very fast. For him, it was a bad thing; for Sylvia, it was an advantage. She needn't be so vigilant on his movements when he seemed to take a millennia just to say a few words.

For all of Salvatore Maroni's hotheaded talk, Ron wasn't as impetuous. He was just as civil, but calmer than the rest of his family. Another advantage, to say the least.

The head of the Dray Family was a sixty-year-old man, Max (Maximillian) Dray. A mane of gray hair that used to be there when he was a decade younger had now all but receded. His face was elastically long, eyes sunken in from years of stress. Aside from being mistaken for a Halloween decoration, he was a pleasant man to do business with. Out of the Five Families, the Drays were the most patient and civilized—even compared to Sylvia.

The Belichs (pronounced Bell-EEck) were of Russian and French descent. They were one of the two reasons why Sylvia had started learning French. She could speak their language, sure, but now she could _hear_ what they were saying about her. It was also the same reason Oswald had learned the language. Head of the Family was Frenchman, Jock. His last name was so hard to say that Sylvia had just taken to calling him 'Monsieur Jock', or just 'Monsieur'. Leave the correct pronunciation and proper gentleman talk to Oswald, she thought. Jock was smooth talking, a sycophant. He was young, late twenties, wore a symbolic brown leather jacket, had a nicely shaven head, and always had a five o'clock shadow. Other than that, not a memorable guy.

The last Head of the Five Families was Isaac Paddock, a man (See a pattern here?). Isaac had to be one of the most intriguing bosses Sylvia had ever encountered. Contrary to the fact that Isaac looked like any other average man residing in Gotham, Isaac's men dressed in far fancier suits. At best, the Head of the Family wore jeans, a white shirt with a clip-on tie….and that was Fancy Isaac. His casual demeanor threw off a lot of unsuspecting people.

Forget the fact that this man was running one of the most reputable businesses on the coast. Forget that this man had once served under the President of the United States when he was still in the Air Force. Forget all of that.

The most intriguing fact about Isaac was that he was deaf. And he communicated in Sign Language. To keep things from getting spicy, Sylvia regularly spoke while she signed so all the parties in the Meeting would understand what was being said (or at least what was allegedly being said).

It wasn't a secret that Isaac looked on Sylvia with more favor. Even when Oswald was running things, the Paddock Head still favored Sylvia on a grander scale. After all, she'd gone above and beyond to make him feel included, learning his own language and culture—and also saved him some money since Isaac was paying out the nose to find a translator of his own.

Isaac was patient, calm, mostly obedient, and because he favored Sylvia over the rest, he did what he could to make sure she didn't encounter as many problems from his people as she did with the other families.

It made things easier, at least.

Now with all the Heads gathered in the room, and seated, Sylvia remained standing, glancing to the double doors for Chilly and Dagger to close them. They remained alert and vigilant, constantly searching the room for any antagonists.

Shortly after the doors were closed, Mr. Bell entered, looking less than happy that the door nearly slammed on his face. He strode through the room in bounding foot falls, and placed a fresh glass of tea on the table in front of Sylvia's spot; she smiled gratefully at him, although she remained standing.

The men greeted one another in that over-the-top friendly gesture: handshakes here, half-meaning hugs there.

"Gentlemen." Sylvia greeted, smiling at them all. "Before we begin, I must apologize for the grieving oversight. I know I've been putting you all off for a fair while. Let's just all agree that Galavan was a pain all of our asses. Now that's he's gone for good, we can continue working together as we always have."

"Working together?" Ron Maroni piped up, leading the other men in a titter of agreement. "When have we ever worked together?"

"You're alive, aren't you?"

"Very much so."

"Then we've been working together. If we weren't, you'd be buried six feet in the ground."

"Is that a threat?"

"A _promise_ , Mr. Maroni."

Ron Maroni looked at her with a cool facade, even though he knew she meant well.

Before Sal's untimely—if not sudden—death, Sal's people left a bad taste in Sylvia's mouth. Twice, they'd sexually assaulted her, and twice, she'd made them pay for it. And while the bastards were dead and their carcasses had long been eaten away by moths and god-knows-what-else, Sylvia still shuddered in disgust at the sound of Maroni's surname.

Isaac Paddock signed, immediately pulling Sylvia's attention to him. Isaac looked a great deal concerned as he used his hands to communicate. He was a quick one, and Sylvia caught every word.

As she signed back, Sylvia answered vocally as well: "I'm not angry. No. Galavan" (She finger spelled the names) "disrupted a lot of the businesses, but I think once people realize he's been taken care of, things will start going back to normal. Or" (She chuckled) "as normal as they can be in Gotham."

Isaac signed back.

She smiled: "I know. I hope so too."

"Have you met with the Commissioner yet?" Ron Maroni questioned, ignoring Isaac's silent reassurance.

"No. That's this evening."

Thankfully, Isaac wasn't getting lost in the translation. He could read lips.

"And what are you going to tell him?"

"What I'm telling you." Sylvia said calmly. "The Commissioner wants to renegotiate terms. He thinks that Galavan's intrusion—his whole thing with Bruce Wayne—has upset the foundation. He is wrong. I am prepared to tell him that the terms are as they stand, and if he wants to renegotiate, then he can retire. I'll be more than happy to talk to the next one that takes his place."

"He wants to talk about a bigger paycheck."

"What he gets from his dirty cops and from me is more than enough," She abstained.

"Ten percent," Maroni chuckled darkly. "Ten percent. Do you know how long it took for us to get to that percentage. Hours, Sylvia. _Hours_."

"I'm not disagreeing, Mr. Maroni. The Commissioner is just looking after his people. With Gotham's new lunatics out to cause mayhem, I can't really blame him."

"Jerome certainly had them flying on the seat of their coattails," chuckled Maximillian Dray. He let out a cough, rubbing his elastic face momentarily, adding, "I apologize. I've been fighting a cold for the past month or so."

Suddenly, Drake Anderson stood, gaining everyone's attention, including Sylvia's. His abrupt movement made Mr. Bell cringe behind Sylvia, who gave him a meaningful glance. The gun that Mr. Bell was about to pull from the holster around his belt slacked back into its sheathe; everyone was tense—Mr. Bell was no exception.

"Something you want to say, Mr. Anderson?" Sylvia asked coolly.

"You've been putting us off for a while now. Me, included. I'm not talking just days, or weeks. You've been putting me off for _months_."

"I suppose I should apologize for that?"

"I think you should." Drake insisted, gesturing violently to her. "You've been dodging me. Us."

"Not that it's any of your business, but I've had a lot on my plate," Sylvia said firmly. "I'd invite you to run this thing yourself, but I'm sure you'd leap at the opportunity, wouldn't you?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

Drake strode around the table, towards Sylvia. Dagger and Chilly cocked their shot guns, warning him. Drake heard the sound, glanced over his shoulder at the massive body guards then slowly glared at Sylvia. He put his hands on the table, bearing his weight.

"There's talk, Sylvia. Lots of talk."

"Talk about what?" She questioned. "Everyone in Gotham is hungry. I know that. People want to take my place, just as they all wanted to take on Falcone. If you're applying for this job, young Anderson, you might want to consider other half-time jobs before taking on this one."

"You don't think I'm capable?"

"I _know_ you're not capable."

Drake bared his teeth, and pointed harshly at her, "You don't know _half_ of what I know."

"Well, you're wrong." Sylvia answered. "Mr. Bell?"

Mr. Bell left shortly through the double doors as though on cue. He returned with a vanilla-colored envelope, handing it straight to her. She took it gingerly and thanked him.

"What is all this now?" Ron Maroni questioned.

"Proving a point." Sylvia answered politely.

Ron Maroni nodded, and he remained content to sit and watch the display.

Drake, however, looked punitive. His lips twitched, trying to move into syllables that could then produce sounds of dismay, but none came out. Sylvia held the file out to him, showing the profile of Detective James Gordon. This display made Drake's face become a shade of gray.

"You've been trying to get this," Sylvia said darkly. "Haven't you?"

"No."

" _No_?" She repeated incredulously. She stood. "Not a month ago, shortly after I declined your request to see me, you put one of your men up to the challenge of breaking into my office and getting this file on my brother. Yes, Drake, I _know_ it was you."

Drake frowned: "You're paranoid."

"Maybe," Sylvia agreed. "But I have good reason to be. After all, y _ou_ hired your men to break into my office. _You_ have been trying to find dirt on my family to use against me...even though blackmail never suited you. I bet it was your father that came up with the idea, huh? _You_ are the only person who seems to have a problem with the way I run things."

Sylvia handed the file back to Mr. Bell.

Drake breathed in deeply through his nose and out of his mouth, glancing at his fellow Families but realizing none were going to stand up and take his side. Quite the opposite; most of them looked livid that Drake had gone as far as breaking into Sylvia's territory to find a file on her own kin.

"Sure," Drake said finally, raising his hands in front of him. "You know, you caught me. You're right. I don't like you running things."

"Well, we can both agree on something now. But suck it up, buttercup."

"I'm sorry, but _Madame_ , if you don't like running this operation," said Jock Belich calmly. "Why do you still continue to do so?"

"I have my reasons." Sylvia answered. "And for now, those reasons are mine and mine alone. Let's make something clear, shall we?—Sit down, Mr. Anderson—I am not going to give anything up. Not to you" (She gestured to everyone in the room) "and not to anyone else that thinks I'm weak. I've brought you here for one reason only. And that's to clear the air."

"Clear the air?" Max Dray repeated.

"Figuratively speaking, of course." Sylvia said with a small smile.

"That's disappointing. The Smog is killing my lungs."

"Yeah, no kidding," chuckled Jock Belich. "I can't ever tell if it's fog or smog…."

Drake Anderson mumbled, "Fucking weather talk…."

Sylvia continued calmly, "I will do my best to accommodate all of you. But if you want to maim anyone, kill or kidnap—what have you—I need to be notified. Especially if it concerns matters with the GCPD." Sylvia glowered pointedly at Anderson. "Am I clear?"

There was a mumble of agreement.

"Any questions?" Sylvia offered. "Statements, complaints, equivocations?"

Everyone shook their head.

"You're all free to leave then."

The double doors opened and mostly everyone left. Sylvia smiled when Isaac Paddock remained. Although, her happiness faltered when she saw just how concerned he appeared. She approached him.

Slowly, he signed to her.

Sylvia smiled in spite of herself, signing back as she said, "I'm doing as well as I can. Oswald" (she spelled his name with her fingers) "has been gone for a month.'

Isaac frowned and signed to her, ' _I'm sure he's doing well. He's been through worse before. Please, though, talk with your hands. No one needs to hear us_.'

She nodded.

Isaac signed: ' _What was the real reason you brought us here?'_

Sylvia replied, ' _I needed to know who was against me. Obviously, it's Drake Anderson. He's a pain in the ass._ '

Isaac let out a smooth chuckle, patting Sylvia on the shoulder. He signed, ' _My dear woman, that boy has always been like that. Aside from him, who do you believe is against you_?'

Sylvia shrugged uncertainly.

Isaac glanced around the room, and he sent her the gravest of expressions. Sylvia furrowed her eyebrows curiously at him.

' _There are rumors.'_ He signed. ' _Tabitha Galavan and Butch Gilzean._ '

Sylvia rolled her eyes. Isaac touched her shoulder, insisting she listen to him.

Isaac signed more urgently, ' _There's talk on the coast. They're going to recruit people, and once they get enough people, they will try to take over._ '

Sylvia spoke calmly, forgetting her hands, "Tabitha is the reason Butch is the way he is. I doubt they'd be working together."

' _You'd be surprised'_ , Isaac returned. ' _Love is a powerful thing._ '

"Love _is_ a powerful thing," Sylvia returned gently. "If it's reciprocated."

' _I don't know how deep their love is...but I do know—for a fact—that they are working together. In whatever terms, it won't be good for you. Or any of us.'_

Sylvia nodded in agreement while Isaac smiled sadly. He reached around and hugged her; she let him do so, but didn't return the display of endearment. He shook her hand; she shook it back, and he clicked his tongue; on command, his two associates followed him out of the mansion.

Gabe approached her from the sidelines, and said curiously, "What was that all about?"

"A conversation about the weather," Sylvia half-joked.

"Must be a bad one then."

Sylvia glanced at him, uncertain as to whether he was seriously playing dumb or just joining in on the inside joke. Earning not a helping clue from him, Sylvia assumed the best that he was joking with her. He could be a source of entertainment, even if things were looking down.

As the Families dispelled, Sylvia drank her tea. She felt a hand on her shoulder; she turned and smiled when she saw that it was Victor Zsasz.

"I guess I missed the show," Victor drawled monotonously.

Sylvia placed her cup of tea on the table.

"There wasn't any show."

"True. But anytime you give it to the youngest Anderson, I think it's pretty funny," Victor admitted, smirking at her.

He leaned against the fireplace, in his black attire with his arms crossed over his chest.

"How did it go?"

"Like you said it would."

"Did he 'fess up?"

"He folded like a towel."

"I'm not shocked." Victor sighed, rolling his eyes. "The man's a weasel."

"I agree. And thanks again," Sylvia said, grinning widely. "I figured he was another who was trying to weaken me, but I had to be sure."

"You've never needed validation before doing something." Victor chortled. "Having a little self-doubt, are you?"

Sylvia lifted a marble statue from the mantle, took the hundred-dollar bill that was underneath, and handed it to Victor, saying, "Normally, Oswald would be here to tell me whether I should or should not kill. With him gone, I need to be more certain of things. Here…."

"You're paying me?" Victor asked incredulously, looking at the money.

She nodded. "It's the agreed amount. You broke into my office on a day I wasn't expecting you to."

"Because you asked me to."

"And I'm giving you something for helping me out."

"I thought I was just doing you a favor, but thank you." He pocketed the cash. "You know, you could have just told Anderson that someone broke into your office…without having someone actually break into your office."

"I wouldn't have been nearly as pissed off."

"You could have lied. Gotten away with it."

"Yes, I could have," said Sylvia, shrugging a shoulder carelessly. "But the emotion wouldn't be there."

Victor took a seat in Sylvia's (and what could be Oswald's) chair, sitting in it backwards. He grinned up at her when she stood in front of him; her back to the fireplace, her eyes meeting his directly.

"He admits to doing something he knows he didn't do," Victor said lazily. "Sounds like someone has a guilty conscience."

"He may never have done it, but he's thought about doing it."

"Just to get his hands on Jim's folder?"

"Mm-hm."

"It wouldn't help him."

Sylvia chuckled, "I know, right? Half of the crap Jim has done isn't even written down."

Victor watched Sylvia move throughout the room. She was searching for something. As though he read her mind, Victor called her name; she turned and he threw a pack of cigarettes to her.

"Thanks," Sylvia said gratefully, breathing out a deep sigh. "Mr. Bell has taken to hiding them from me."

"Can't say I blame him. You've been going through those pretty fast."

"Not without good reason."

"Have you tried just killing someone? That's what I normally do when I feel tense." Victor offered. "Well…." He smirked. "That and a few other things."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Victor." She chided, but she had a hard time suppressing her own smile. "If I could, I'd kill a lot of people, but I'm flying below the radar at the moment. And sex is off the table."

Victor shrugged, "Well, if you're ever taking volunteers…."

"I'll be sure you're no where near me."

Victor and Sylvia exchanged knowing smiles.

Sylvia pulled a stick from the pack, placing it between her lips.

She handed the pack to Victor, who took it gracefully and placed it inside his inner pocket.

He never smoked a cigarette in his life; he just liked having them in any case he needed to assuage his work-wife of the more minor conflicts in her life—like having no cigarettes. She placed the cigarette briefly against the flames in the fireplace and when the embers smoked, she withdrew it and took a long, deep drag, smiling a little when the nicotine filled her system.

"Have a seat, Liv. Take a breath," said Victor as he stood from the chair on which he'd been sitting on so she could have her seat back.

It was his turn to lean against the fireplace. His laugh sobered as she did.

"So…." Victor began. "Breaking into your office was easy enough of a task. What's next?"

"Nothing for you, at this moment."

"Drake admitted to conspiring against you. _That_ warrants a killing, doesn't it?"

"So eager," Sylvia teased. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves."

Victor accepted her soft criticism, however cared to emphasize: "But he _is_ a problem."

"Yes. He is."

"So?"

"'So' nothing. I could strip him down, show him what I have on him, but that'll only cause the other families to become paranoid—and the Andersons will grow bitter. Bitter enough to hold up arms and come after me. And I don't need that kind of toxicity just yet. I don't need another gang war. I've already been through one of those, and it wasn't pleasant."

"So you're not worried about Anderson? 'For the moment'. Got it. But I saw you miming with Isaac Paddock. Wanna tell me what that was all about?"

"The weather."

"I call 'bullshit'," He declared. "Paddock's smart. For one thing, he has no ears." He touched his own. "So he's observant."

Sylvia remained silent, taking another long drag of her cigarette. She flicked the ashes into the tray in front of her while the hitman stayed nonchalant.

It was a known fact that the two of them used to conspire together; once upon a time, they were contract buddies. They shared a work relationship, and that friendship had been established and deeply rooted. It was only a matter of time before Sylvia confessed to what was really eating her on the inside. Victor was patient enough to wait.

"He told me a rumor." Sylvia finally spoke.

Victor sat down beside her, in one of the chairs, scooting it forward to the table.

"Rumors are fun," He said with a hungry gaze. "What has he heard?"

"Tabitha Galavan."

"The sister?"

"Mm-hmm. Her and Butch. They're trying to recruit people, and then—allegedly – they'll come for me."

"Galavan and Gilzean," chuckled Victor. "That's not a match made in heaven."

"I wouldn't have believed it. But considering the source…."

"Yeah, Paddock isn't one for gossip."

"Yeah, and he wouldn't have told me if he didn't think it was true."

"Can't really say it is true until you see it for yourself," Victor reminded. "You know Gotham."

"Better than anyone, I daresay."

"So what's the plan for them?"

"I don't have one."

" **I** have one," Victor suggested.

"You can't kill them."

"It'd save you a lot of time and energy."

"Yes, but it would also make me look like a paranoid psychopath if I just killed _everyone_."

"Liv, Tabitha Galavan killed your mother-in-law, and Butch Gilzean is….well, _Butch Gilzean_." Victor mused carefully. "Murder seems justifiable."

"I'm not looking for justice right now. I'm looking for balance. For control. That's what I need. The others can wait."

Victor sighed, "Come on, Liv. Let me go to work. I can clear this up for you really quick. You **know** me."

"I said the others can wait. _Don't_ do anything."

Victor sat back in his chair: "You're a lot less fun since you've taken over."

"Trust me. If I could give it up knowing the empire wouldn't crumble under someone else's control, I would do it in a hot second."

"Anderson seems like he's prepared to take it over."

"Anderson is hotheaded."

"So are you."

"I'm hotheaded but _smart_ ," Sylvia reminded, winking at him.

"You never used to be so tactical."

"You're right. I have Oswald to thank for that. He's taught me a great deal."

"Hopefully, he's taken a few things from you too."

"Such as?"

Victor smirked, "Killing people in general."

"He's killed people before."

"His killing people isn't the same." He said, sounding disappointed. "He does it out of impulse."

"So do I."

"But you do it beautifully. It's an art show; you are the artist, the blood of your enemies is the medium, and Gotham….that's your canvas."

"Stop buttering me up, Zsasz. We're not having sex."

Victor stood up, shrugging carelessly as he said, "Worth a shot."

He moved behind her chair and kissed her briefly on the exposed skin of her shoulder. She smiled at him.

"If you need anything, call me." Victor offered. "You know where to find me."

"Thank you."

"No problem, Liv."

He patted the same shoulder and then left the mansion, leaving Sylvia alone to gather her thoughts. She put the cigarette out, throwing it into the fireplace. The embers barely recognized the intrusion, only glowing a minute brighter before dulling back to its usual orange flame.

Tabitha Galavan and Butch Gilzean. If they dared to contest her for the empire that she and Oswald had built, let them. Sylvia would be more than happy to give them a taste of their own medicine.


	3. Ed Wants To Help

Chapter Three: Ed Wants To Help

* * *

Sylvia was performing on stage. She wore a deep ocean blue dress, the sleeves ending in a triangular cuff so the tip of the shape slipped over her middle finger like a ring. The dress did nothing to hide her bare milky white shoulders; accentuating her fine collar bone was a gold chain, a single pearl pendant hanging a few inches just above the exposed flesh of her valley. The shoulder-length crimson locks were pulled into a fashionable bun, weaves of sapphire and emerald pins speckled through them.

It was a Friday night, the one day out of the week where she could forget that she was the ruler of the Underworld; that her life was always on the brink of falling into chaos; that her husband was somewhere on the streets, avoiding the police and in hiding.

It was the only night that Sylvia felt like herself, the person she really was, and that was an entertainer.

She sang in all tones—the low, feminine timbres that could be felt in the depth of her chest to the high-pitched Soprano notes that rang and vibrated beautifully into the microphone. One of her hands held said microphone, her eyes closed as she vocalized to her heart's content.

The chatter in the crowd died, as the audience listened. Beer bottles stopped clattering; the ladies in the back ceased to titter at the drunken manly slobs that surrounded the diner like wallpaper border. The staff, including Gabriel, Dagger, Chilly, Delilah, and Brittany, remained content to listen.

The rush hour of Gotham's traffic during the seven o'clock toll seemed miles and miles away.

When Sylvia's last note rang, the listeners held onto it.

She smiled and spoke into the microphone: "Thank you all for listening. Now…." She gestured to the sidelines. "I must welcome Jacob Tradoll. He's been renowned so far as Gotham's most highly recommended comedian. Let's give him a hand, huh?"

In appreciation of her as well as welcoming the new entertainment, the crowd clapped loudly.

Sylvia strode off the stage. Delilah was the first to congratulate her on another Friday night done well.

"You were spectacular," She enthused.

"Beautiful!" Brittany squeaked, hugging Sylvia around the middle.

"Good singer, as always. No competition there," said Chilly.

Gabe said, "I never get tired of hearing you sing, Liv."

"Me neither," Dagger agreed.

"You all are sweet." Sylvia said, thanking them gracefully.

She walked to the bar and was a little taken aback to see Edward Nygma sitting on a pew. He'd gone as far as ordering a drink: a grasshopper, of all things. More or less content, Ed smiled widely when Sylvia approached him.

"I didn't expect to see you here…of all places." She stated, sitting on a stool beside him. "I'd wager this is a friendly visit?"

"Of course."

"Oh thank fucking god." She sighed in relief. "I thought maybe...you know, I have no idea what I was thinking. For a moment there…um…Well, it doesn't matter. How've you been?"

Ed turned to her—body and all. It looked as though he'd just gotten off work. His clothes didn't look any different from when she last saw him, albeit, that confidence of his had never left. His hair was smoothed back, with gel perhaps, and a cool smile stayed at the forefront of his expression. Sylvia minded his calm.

"How come you're here?"

"I thought, for once, I'd come see _you_."

"Well, I'm here." Sylvia returned, chuckling.

"I meant _outside_ of work." Ed cared to clarify. "Well, my work. We only seem to run into each other when you come to the GCPD or if Penguin is dying."

"Well, there was that one time when you came to see me in the hospital."

"I would prefer to meet you under circumstances that are better than life-threatening."

"It's Gotham; you might be asking for too much. Between business and life-threatening circumstances, I don't think you have much of a choice."

"Perhaps, but I figure we could have something in between."

Sylvia nodded, considering his offer.

She looked at Brittany, who had become all too familiar with that certain expression; the blonde started mixing a drink, and placed a glass of pink liquid in front of her boss.

Silent, but obedient.

Sylvia thanked her with an appreciative smile.

"Come with me." She said to Ed, giving him little time to object as she stood and walked up the stairs; he followed Sylvia to her office. She closed the door after he came inside, and she gestured to the chair in front of her desk.

Ed took a seat. Never in all his years did he believe he'd be sitting in this kind of club, with its reputation for bad characters. Then again, he wasn't so good anymore...was he?

Sylvia sat at her desk after gathering and piling a few books on top of one another, and placing them in the bottom drawer of her desk. Ed noticed the discreet way she kept things from him—her criminal activities, what she was working on, that sort of thing. It was like she still only saw him as Edward Nygma: Forensics. Not the Edward that had killed a cop, his girlfriend, and that no-body in the woods.

Ed frowned a little. Sylvia noticed.

"So," She said lightly. "You want something that's in between life-threatening situations and talking to you at work."

"Yes. I would."

"Seems doable."

"Quite."

"So let's talk about that, shall we?" She offered, gesturing to him. "There _is_ something we must discuss first before we do."

"Is there?"

"Yes. And that's the fact we both know you have feelings for me."

"But that shouldn't get in the way of our friendship."

"Friendship is hard to come by...especially in Gotham. But romantic feelings muddy things up. It can drive a wedge between two friends."

"I agree with that, one-hundred percent."

"You do, do you?"

"Emphatically."

"Well, if that's case. I guess the only question to ask is: what do _you_ want, Ed?"

"I want friendship."

Sylvia took a drink from her glass and then placed it on the desk, her eyes lingering on the succulent pink before lifting them to meet Ed's stoic gaze.

"Do you not believe me?" He questioned, noticing her skepticism.

"I believe you. But I think there's something else you want to say."

"Something like what?"

"You came to my club," Sylvia said, her voice steadily growing suspicious. "I feel like you came here with another premise other than to ask me for something more than just my friendship. That's why you came, isn't it? That's why you're here?"

He didn't give any sign that she was correct, but he must've had a tell. Because she smiled knowingly.

"You're smart, Ed. But you're forgetting something."

Ed allowed himself a cool half-smile.

He said cleverly, "What could I be forgetting, Liv?"

"That I'm pretty fucking perceptive. And I _know_ a little white lie when I hear one."

Ed smiled again but it was accidental. He cleared his throat, albeit nervously. His true self was there, but that nervous side of him was too.

"It's true. Selfishly, there is nothing that I want more than to be _more_ than just friends," Ed said calmly, ignoring the soft shaking in his voice.

"Ed…."

"But you said so yourself," He interrupted her. Insistently. "You and I have a lot in common. Riddles, jokes, an interesting friendship with Penguin—"

"—Not just friendship. Remember, Ed? I'm married."

"Of course. And I haven't forgotten."

Sylvia took another sip of her drink, gesturing for him to continue.

He said furtively, "I want to be there for you. More than not."

"But you _have_ been there for me. You helped Oswald when he needed to be nursed back to health. You helped me so much in the past—I could have been lost without you. You've been a wonderful friend, an ally that I can trust. And trust is so hard to find in the city."

"I don't mean just 'there for you' as a friend."

"Ed…."

"No! _No_! Damn it…." Ed grunted, rubbing his face in frustration. "I don't mean it that way! Look….just…." He leaned forward, taking Sylvia's unoccupied hand in between his. "I don't pretend to know what your life is like, what this" (he gestured to the club scene and villainous lifestyle in general) "is like for you, but I _do_ know that I want to be a part of it….and I know you're lost right now…." He was silent for only a second before he quickly added, "Without Penguin, I mean."

Sylvia stared at him. "Ed, you're not making _any_ sense."

"I know I'm not." He muttered irritably.

He sat back in his chair.

"I understand your principles. I know what they are. And I am not asking you to break them. But I want to be there for you, in more ways than you could possibly imagine, in ways that even _I_ don't understand. Penguin taught me a lot, told me a lot of things, but it's one thing to do something in theory—quite another to do it in practice."

"Let me stop you right there." Sylvia said quietly, taking her hand from his. "Are you telling me….you _want_ to help me rule the Underworld? Is that what you're saying."

"Yes." Ed breathed, more relieved than anything that she was able to understand what he meant. "That's it. I swear."

"Ed, that's a _lot_ to take on. Even for a man of your intelligence." Sylvia said, gesturing to him.

Ed smiled in spite of himself, saying, "You think I'm capable, don't you?"

"More than capable, yes. But you are the GCPD."

"I'm only Forensics."

"I know that. Regardless, you're the GCPD." Sylvia insisted. "You are part of its entity."

"I'm a whole other entity."

Sylvia ignored his inflated ego, saying, "Do you have any idea of how much fucking trouble this could get you in. The implications _alone_?"

"I'm a lot cleverer than what you're giving me credit for," Ed offered indignantly. "I'm _more_ than capable of working under the GCPD's nose. They don't even have the slightest idea what I have done."

"They don't know about Kristen?"

"If they did, I'd know about it."

"You eliminated any evidence linking yourself to Kristen."

"I'd consider that a big highlight on my criminal resume. Killing her…."

"It's barely a blip on the radar."

"She was my girlfriend."

"So fine—she was your girlfriend. She went missing for _how_ long, now? A few days? A few weeks? And no one has bothered to ask you about her whereabouts, where she went, or what happened to her?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"She was a big part of the GCPD."

"She was a _records custodian_. Not exactly the Mayor of Gotham, Ed. Her murder isn't profile-worthy. I'm pretty sure that once any of the officers get ahold of her missing portfolio, they'll start getting close to you. And they _will_ start suspecting you. And what then?"

Ed frowned: "What's your point?"

"You want to rule an _empire_. Eventually, e _veryone_ will know what and who you are," Sylvia said tiredly. "You're operating calmly under your conditions because no one suspects a thing. Once they do, you'll start folding under the pressure."

"Do you even hear yourself?" Ed questioned, crossing his arms.

"Don't get so defensive," She scoffed. "I'm pointing out the facts."

"And those facts are what exactly?"

Sylvia leaned back in her chair, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her index finger and thumb.

She looked at him with the same tired expression: "The GCPD doesn't think you're qualified to be a criminal. I've seen the way they interact with you—the lawyer, Captain Barnes, the other officers…even Jim."

"And that would make me even more inconspicuous, would it not?" Ed pointed out coolly. "Like I said…you're giving me _no_ credit."

"I'm giving you full credit. You're a very intelligent man, smarter than most." (Ed grinned in appreciation for the compliment.) "No one is questioning your intellect. Or your capability. It's a question of morals."

"I don't have any morals."

"Oh, you do." Sylvia reassured, smirking at him. "They're just misplaced. Becoming a part of the Underworld isn't like applying for a job. It's a lifestyle."

"What if I said I didn't have a life?"

"You go home and watch TV by yourself, while you solve crossword puzzles and do Sudoku. It's not an eventful lifestyle, but you _do_ have a life, Ed. And people in Gotham talk…especially the people in the Narrows. Working in the GCPD, you will be implicated, then arrested, and then convicted. If you weren't in the GCPD, it would probably be a whole other story. But this life is not for you."

"I'm aware of that," Ed answered, an irritation hiding just beneath the surface. "If I can't be a part of it, then I want to be a part of _yours_."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm saying 'no'." Sylvia said darkly. She rubbed her temple with her fingertips. "It's a grand offer. Don't get me wrong—I would _love_ some help that didn't come in the form of curvy blonde roots or grunge-y brutes. Your brain is like a treasure chest full of ideas, I'm sure." (Again, Ed grinned at the compliment.) "But…I hope you know it comes from a calm, sweet place when I tell you that I can't have you work with me."

Ed stared at her, a little hurt by that.

" _Now_ who's letting their feelings get in the way of our friendship," He said, passive-aggressively.

Sylvia looked at him sternly.

"I like you, Ed. Just like we both know you have feelings for me, I can't deny that I have feelings for you too. But they're not supposed to be there. I'm married." Sylvia insisted calmly. "Having you around me—working in this kind of environment, seeing you everyday—I know what would happen."

"What _would_ happen?" Ed questioned. A tinge of hope in his voice.

Sylvia detected it and she said, "It doesn't matter."

"You need my help, Liv." Ed said urgently, standing to his feet. "You can run this operation single-handedly—there's no doubt about that—but you're slowly breaking. You'll run yourself to the ground."

Sylvia stood too.

She placed her hands on the desk, ignoring her fast-beating heart, the way her stomach rolled pleasantly when she saw the way Ed was looking at her: protectively. They were staring each other down, like wolves circling the den to claim its territory.

"You said you wanted to help me, to be there for me." She said with forced calm. "Be here for me now, and please leave my office."

"Why do you look like I might hurt you?"

"I don't think you would hurt me. But it'd probably be better if I thought you could."

"There's something between us, Liv. You have to admit that. _At least that_."

"I _have_ admitted it!"

"Then say it."

"I can't."

"Stop denying what you want!"

"I don't want _you_!"

Ed stared at her, taken aback by her outburst.

Sylvia stared at him incredulously and she snapped, "I love Oswald, **Ed**! You're placing me in one hell of a fucking situation. You think you're helping me? You're not!"

Ed stepped back a pace when she rounded the table.

"I have feelings for you—of course, I do—and I've admitted it. But I love Oswald; it's not fair to him. I've said before: Friendship is all that I can offer to you. If that's not something you can accept, then as I have said before—maybe it is best that we aren't friends!" Sylvia said helplessly.

Ed stepped back, watching her advance.

"Liv, there must be a way…."

"There _is_ no way!" Sylvia snapped. "You want me to be brutally honest, then fine. You want me to choose between you and Oswald? I choose him. I will _always_ choose him. My god, if I knew you were going to behave this way, I'd have never told you how I felt about you!"

Ed gulped, taking a few more paces back.

He thought he'd steered clear from her just enough until his back hit the window blinds of the door behind him. Sylvia grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, shoving him further into it. The pain might have hurt if he was feeling anything short of it, but Ed was distracted by the heat of her eyes.

"I'm trying my best to keep this fucking empire running," Sylvia said harshly. "Trying my best to look like I've got my shit together, but it's all a _fucking_ lie! And once I think I have my fucking ducks in a row, you come here, talking about running a kingdom with me, getting neck-deep into this criminal shit! Why the _hell_ did you come to me if all you were going to do is just piss—" (She pulled him forward so she could slam his back into the door) " _me_ " (she did it again) " **off**!"

"Liv, I know you're angry at me—"

"—Damn right I'm angry—"

"—But you have to listen to me—"

Sylvia let him go, and stormed across the room. Hearing him, she whirled around, snapping, "Why the hell should I listen!"

"Listen to _reason—_ "

Then Sylvia blinked, looking at him. Eyes wide. Lips parted slightly in disbelief.

" _Are_ you a voice of reason, Ed?" Sylvia questioned, approaching him slowly. "Want to be my voice of reason, of logic, of practicality? Fine. Talk. Reason with me! Are you going to calm me down, huh? Going to make everything all better, tell me it's okay? Wanna try it! TRY IT!"

She lifted a hand, perhaps to slap him, to punch him, to push him out the door. Whatever the reason, she didn't get far.

Ed caught that hand. Infuriated by his interruption, Sylvia lifted the other; Ed caught that one too. He switched places with her, and pushed her against the door instead; if anything, just to restrain her until she stopped trying to attack him. She looked up at him, familiar fire in those eyes.

The heat. That rage.

Forget morals. Forget principles.

Ed shoved his mouth against Sylvia's, daring to die tonight. For a second, Ed was certain _she_ had died. Her hands stopped fighting his, her body has stopped struggling.

Sylvia's mind was blank, so her body was thinking for her.

Soft lips on hers, a calculating tongue that licked her bottom lip and once achieving an open invitation, it entreated between them. Languid movements, gentle strokes of his tongue along her own….a quiet sigh of relief—did the sigh come from him or did it come from her?

She wasn't sure.

And then her mind starting turning gears. Guilt and anger shot through her. Sylvia pushed against him, freeing her wrists from his slackened grasp. She glowered at him.

Ed looked surprised, but was soon too quickly spun up on what was just about to happen.

"Get out." Sylvia ordered lowly.

"Liv—"

"I said ' _get out_ '." Sylvia repeated.

Ed bit his bottom lip. There was a different type of danger radiating from her. A danger that he wasn't too ready to face. Quickly, Ed left the office, leaving behind his grasshopper drink. Sylvia rubbed her hands together, then touched her forehead, then her temples. Her stomach started grumbling uncomfortably; her head was pounding with a new headache.

"Men." Sylvia groaned.


	4. Cobblepot Is Caught

Chapter Four: Cobblepot Is Caught

* * *

He thought he'd finished running once he had become King of Gotham. Apparently, once a criminal, one's legs never truly stopped running.

Oswald stood over an open fire in a barrel in an alley, hovering near and around it were other unfortunate souls who'd had a bad rap in this world. He couldn't very well say that he was 'homeless'. Speaking politically correct, he had a mansion with a beautiful wife, and—from the looks of reading newspapers—she was still runnings things. On the surface, it appeared as though she was doing well. However, Oswald knew that Sylvia was likely hanging by her nails.

He couldn't go back though. He knew the moment he set foot in that mansion, that's when the police would arrest him. Oswald wouldn't care to be arrested, taking credit for what his wife had accomplished, putting Galavan's death under his belt, but Capt Barnes had it in for Sylvia. He'd find a way to sew her onto his sentence to Black Gate. 'Aiding and abetting, harboring'—even if the evidence pointed to Sylvia being completely innocent.

Well, not _completely_. After all, she'd held the gun to Galavan's head.

Oswald put his hand over the open fire. He was dressed from head to toe in the clothes he could find on the street. Better to look the part, right?

A man beside him softly spoke to himself. About the weather. About Gotham's history. And whether that sweet old lady would come to the park again to give out freshly baked cookies to the homeless. Supposedly, that was. Oswald had been on the streets for nearly a month and he'd yet to see this alleged woman handing out anything besides old bird seed.

Perhaps the self-chatting man was psychotic. Oswald didn't care to know. Instead, he kept walking, kept his head down, never minding the other people that gave him a wide berth. He wasn't the best smelling character—lord knew he had an odor about him by now. Maybe that would help him blend in with the lesser hygienic community.

Oswald chuckled to himself. That was a funny joke, he thought. No one laughed—then again, he'd made a point to remain optimally quiet as possible.

Sylvia would have laughed, he thought. Sylvia laughed at all his jokes.

"What's eating _you_."

Oswald startled, hearing someone actually talk to him. He was relieved to see that it was same old bum from the days before, the one that had talked about the woman and the fresh baked cookies. The same one that always talked to himself.

Oswald glanced him over, noticing that the man was dressed very much like him.

Worn, tattered pants. A too-big overcoat. Brownish black fingerless gloves—used to be light brown until the grime and soot of the fire and streets started seeping in. A red beanie on the man's head; Oswald's was of the same color. Perhaps all of these clothes had been once donated to charity—a bulk of clothes by one organization; a company who thought to shell out a few bucks at the Dollar Store before opting into a new irrigation system.

Who knew, anymore.

Oswald saw the man still staring at him.

"You're not much for words, are you, son?" The bum muttered; his voice was hard to understand, like a voice box that had been through the grinder one too many times, and it sometimes disappeared so Oswald might hear every other word or so.

Either way, he detected the sincerity in the old man's voice. Or what sounded like it.

"Just thinking of old times," Oswald said, appeasing the man with an answer.

The old man nodded, as though the same statement was his own.

"Sometimes," the man said, "I think of my family. Particularly….around this time when the….is pretty bad, like a storm...coming around. It's gonna rain….about a day or so, I hear. Rain...always flushes out the bad, and….bad always seems to come right….right back in. Know what I'm saying?"

"I suppose so," Oswald answered, nodding.

"Got family, son?"

Oswald nodded again.

"What are they like?" He asked.

"She's beautiful." Oswald answered.

"Wife?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sounds beautiful already," the old man said, giving him a toothy smile. The old man's teeth were already gone, with the exception of a single tooth on the front. Half a buck tooth, it looked like.

"She is."

"What's she do?"

"She sings."

"Arias?"

"Mostly," Oswald answered.

"Is she still alive?"

Oswald considered telling the old man the truth, but he couldn't trust someone he'd just met. Maybe not even the people who'd been working for him for more than a year.

"Not anymore." Oswald lied, looking at the ground with faux sadness. The sadness wasn't all pretend; he missed her greatly, after all.

"That's a shame." The old man said. "What's her name?"

"Diana."

"Beautiful name."

"Yes, it is." Oswald said, smiling. It wasn't Sylvia's first name. Her middle name was Diana. But there was an honesty there, and that's the most that Oswald could offer this friendly man. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Any family?" Oswald asked curiously.

"Just a wife," he said.

"A wife?"

"Yeah."

"What's her name?"

"Diana." The old man answered, sending Oswald a tongue-in-cheek grin. "And she sings arias too. Mostly, when I'm boinking her."

Oswald suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. It looked like the old man was having a laugh. At this point, the sincerity was gone, and Oswald was no longer in the mood to appease. He took his walking stick that had been leaning against the barrel of fire, and started walking onward. His other cane, the black one with the penguin silver handle, was back at the mansion. With good and obvious reason, he'd left that one behind.

A moment later, Oswald bumped into someone. He started apologizing, then realizing it was an officer, he mentally slapped himself.

So frustrated with the old man that Oswald hadn't watched where he was going. He walked himself right into a police officer. One that looked way too happy when he saw who he was. Oswald didn't even bother to escape when the police officer grabbed his arm, and said, "Wowie—I can't believe my luck! Barnes is gonna give me a full week off when he sees what I've found!"

Oswald went without a fuss into the police car. Officer What's-His-Face contacted the GCPD station, and there was a lot of back-and-forth before they resigned to the fact that Oswald Cobblepot had been caught after evading the law for exactly thirty-two days. A good record, an admirable one, really.

Meeting them at the front of the station was Capt Nathaniel Barnes, and the Strike Force. Once Oswald was shuffled out of the police car, Capt Barnes gruffly took him by the elbow and said, "We caught you now, Cobblepot."

Oswald used his right to remain silent and said nothing back. What good was it anyway?

As he was pulled through the door, there was a lot of clapping and cheering that greeted him through the doors. The police—civilian clothes or not—were clapping, and all happy….Barnes looked annoyed. And he showed it.

"SILENCE!" Barnes bellowed. Everyone stopped applauding. "What are you, a bunch of _cheerleaders_! This is not a _game_! This is our job!"

As he moved through the room to put Oswald behind bars, he continued scolding: "And this…specimen…this is just one sad, pathetic skell. There are plenty like him. _Plenty_."

Oswald sent Barnes a salty look as he started walking away. People were still staring at him. Oswald sighed exasperatedly.

"That's right, stare all you want!" Oswald told them. "Big whoop! You got me. I'm cool."

An officer took off the handcuffs and then unceremoniously shoved him in the cell.

"It's all good!" Oswald said, glaring at him.

And the door was slammed shut. Despite his situation, Oswald wondered if Sylvia was doing better than him.

* * *

It wasn't much longer before Oswald was pulled into another room. The interrogation room, in particular. He sat in the chair on side of the metal table, glancing at his own reflection which looked back at him from the two-way mirror.

Ten or fifteen minutes passed before Capt Barnes entered the room, closing the door behind him.

"All right, Cobblepot," he sighed.

He pulled the empty chair to him, sitting on it backwards, opposite of Oswald. Barnes looked to be three times as big as the chair, and it would have been comical if Oswald hadn't been feeling less than up to par.

"Tell me what happened at Galavan's that night."

"Well…." Oswald drawled. "A lot of things happened."

"Why don't you start with the moment right after you knocked me out with that vase." Barnes said gruffly.

"I'm sorry about that. Such an _exquisite_ vase."

Barnes said stiffly, "This is my amused look. Now, keep talking."

"I took Galavan to the river and I killed him. _Slowly_."

"You confess to murder?"

"Yes, I do. Proud of it." Oswald responded calmly. "I'm not a criminal, you know. I'm just….insane." A small smile reached his lips.

"Well, your far better half would say otherwise."

Oswald tilted his head to the side, curious. Then he realized that Barnes was talking about Sylvia.

Wasn't it great how she always made her way into the conversation, no matter how great or little her involvement was?

Oswald put his hands on the table, to show that not only was he not at all disarmed by Barnes' subtle way of mentioning his wife, but so he could touch the wedding band on his hand. Mindful of his thoughtful ministrations as he turned the band with his right hand, thinking of not just his next few words but also of her memory.

Sylvia wasn't dead. But it'd been a long time since he saw her. A month seemed like years to him.

"My better half?" Oswald said, playing naive.

"Your wife."

"Mmm."

"She's admitted that you and her are criminals. Not very law-abiding."

"She speaks poetically," Oswald offered. "She has a Shakespearean humor, if you haven't figured that one out."

"She was there?"

"Where?"

"With you, that night. You, Galavan, and Sylvia."

"She didn't come with me to the river." Oswald said simply. "She wanted to stay with her brother."

"What did James Gordon do?"

"What did he do when?"

Patiently—but sternly—the captain said, "What did he do after you knocked me out?"

"What does he say he did?"

"I'm asking _you_." Barnes said dangerously, looking like he might bust a gut.

"He stayed behind," said Oswald. "A couple of my associates and I were able to elude Detective Gordon; we brought Galavan to the river, and I beat him with a baseball bat. After that, I shot him in the head."

"Sylvia Cobblepot?"

"What about her?"

"She didn't come with you?"

"I said she didn't."

"Jim, himself, said she has an 'unflinching loyalty' towards you," said Barnes coolly. "Like Bonnie and Clyde. I've yet to see her ever choose James over you. She wouldn't stay behind."

Oswald smiled, saying, "That doesn't sound like a question, Captain."

"More or less a statement of the fact," Barnes returned coldly. "You're telling me that your wife—this woman that has an incredible reputation for okaying everything you do—didn't come with you to the river to see Galavan die. That doesn't sound like her."

"She chose to stay with Detective Gordon," Oswald reiterated.

"And you were fine with that?"

"She wanted to be with her brother. I wouldn't stop her from seeing him."

"And she _didn't_ get involved."

"Get involved with….?"

"Killing Galavan."

"No. She wasn't involved." Oswald clarified, smiling in spite of Barnes' look of frustration.

"And you killed him. Alone."

"Yes, I did."

"Why do I have a hard time believing that?" Barnes breathed through flaring nostrils.

"I don't know, Captain. That sounds like a personal issue only you can figure out." Oswald answered smartly, clapping himself on the back to see Barnes become that much more irritable.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe you _are_ insane." Barnes growled. He stood, adding, "Get used to a room this size, Cobblepot. That's where you'll be for the next ten years."

Oswald frowned, watching Barnes leave the room.

* * *

Jim sat in the Captain's office, feeling more nervous than comfortable. Most of the cops were happy that Penguin had been caught. Jim couldn't feel the same cheer.

What if Barnes broke Penguin? What if Penguin gave up that Sylvia had killed Galavan? Or even….what if Penguin divulged that Jim himself had been present when Sylvia had killed him. He'd already denied having been at the scene of a crime countless times!

Jim reassured himself of the facts. One: Penguin….no….Oswald Cobblepot loved his sister. Penguin and Oswald were the same person, but Oswald Cobblepot was whom Sylvia fell in love with. Not the King of Gotham. The Umbrella Boy. The same person—if Jim wasn't mistaken—would gladly die before placing Sylvia in a position where she would have to go to Black Gate.

Sylvia was tough. Tougher than Jim, himself. But he couldn't imagine what kind of person would come out of those gates if she was ever let out. She'd be meaner, tougher….a killer born through the decade of constant beatings and lashings.

Jim could barely see Sylvia as the killer she was in the present. He still had a vision of her enjoying being a Girl Scout, or trying out for the Dance team. All crimson pony tails, and sugary smiles. Jim shuddered at the thought of her becoming something worse than the Penguin's co-conspirator. There was more at stake.

Back to the facts, Jim.

One: Oswald Cobblepot loved his sister. Two: Jim knew that Barnes would try to trip Penguin up with talking about Sylvia. There was no way Barnes wouldn't ask Penguin if she was involved.

Seeing—if anything—whether Oswald would corroborate the story Jim had told.

The story in which Sylvia was innocent, someone who had no involvement in the death of Theo Galavan.

Despite it all, Jim was certain that Oswald wouldn't put Sylvia at risk. If anything, Oswald would put the blame on _him_. Say that it wasn't Oswald nor Sylvia who held the gun, but that it was Jim that pulled the trigger. That wouldn't bode well for him on either account. The only positive outcome of that was that Sylvia would still be innocent, her crime covered up and brushed under the rug.

Either way, even if it did come to that, Jim would take his beating.

The door opened.

Jim suddenly stood, seeing Barnes standing in the doorway. It looked like he had received some bad news. His gaze was disappointedly staring back at him. Waiting for a confession.

"You've got something to tell me?" Barnes questioned.

A sly way for Jim to 'fess up. But he stuck to his story in any case Oswald did hold up his part of the bargain.

"No, sir. Nothing." Jim answered.

Barnes said calmly, "Well….Penguin backed your story."

"You mean he told the truth."

"Yes. That's what I am choosing to believe. It's good to have you back, James."

Barnes held out his hand. Jim began to shake it. But then Barnes pulled him forward, making Jim more tense than anything.

"I'm choosing to trust you, Jim. I'm trusting that you've told me what I needed to know, trusting _you._ Don't make a fool out of me. Got it?" Barnes said, his voice was dangerously quiet.

Jim nodded: "Yes, sir."


	5. A Test Of Trust

Chapter Five: A Test of Trust

* * *

Sylvia was in the bedroom, lying in bed, trying to sleep off a roaring headache. It had been two days—and it still hadn't abated. She could feel her brain smacking itself, like it was trying to break down a hidden door within her cranium. She grumbled when her cell phone started ringing and vibrating on her night stand. It was a simple ring tone but with her brain acting like a wrecking ball currently, the volume might as well had been magnetized by ten.

Without looking at the Caller ID, she answered flatly, " _What_."

"It's me."

Sylvia sighed, "Ed…why the fuck are you calling me…."

"I'm actually surprised you didn't hang up, or yell."

"I'm too tired to yell," Sylvia said, her voice was hoarse. "What the hell do you want?"

"They caught Penguin."

Suddenly, that headache seemed eons away as she abruptly snapped forward and placed the phone closer to her ear.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard correctly. They have him in a cell," Ed whispered.

"Where are _you_?"

"I'm in the M.E. lab."

"Why aren't you in _your_ lab?"

"The M.E. lab was the closest room without anyone in there," Ed answered flippantly. "Look, I'm sorry for what I did back in the club—I don't know what came over me—"

" **Ed**."

"I know, I know—that's not important right now—but I-I needed you to know that I'm sorry, okay?" He said quickly. His words were running together; it might have been indecipherable to many people, but for her, his words came out clear-cut. "They put him in a cell, looks like they're done interrogating him, although I don't know what they had to talk about. Couldn't have taken very long."

"Is Jim there?"

"When _isn't_ he here," Ed responded with a slight annoyance. She could see him rolling his eyes. "But he doesn't look disappointed, if that helps you any."

"I'm coming up there."

"Don't!" Ed said suddenly. He was quiet for a second and Sylvia could hear him talk to someone, "No, no, not you. Sorry, Captain…." His voice then became closer, as he spoke directly to her: "Sylvia, don't come to the station."

"They have my husband," Sylvia told him, getting to her feet and putting on her coat. "I have to see him."

"They won't let you near him, Liv—"

"That's never stopped me before."

"Liv…Liv— _Liv—_ "

Sylvia hung up, only realizing then that she had put her coat on over her PJs. With a sigh of exasperation, she stripped out of her pajamas and quickly threw on black sweat pants and a matching camisole. Fuck the jacket—it wasn't _that_ cold.

Sylvia got in her car and started towards the GCPD. The drive—if legal speed was taken into consideration—was about ten minutes. It only took her five to get to the station, park the car, and she strode through the double doors like the woman on a mission that she was.

The Desk Sergeant minded her, but didn't stop her from entering. Sylvia saw Oswald in the cell before she really knew that it was him. Her heart skipped a beat, seeing him so crestfallen. She didn't bring attention to herself, knowing if she made a spectacle then the Strike Force would be all too willing to throw her out—after all, the police officers in this sanctity only allowed her this much freedom due to her relationship with Jim Gordon. Otherwise, she was just like any other skell.

She made it to the bars, her fingers wrapping around the cold stone. Oswald didn't notice; his back was to her. She saw him through the bars, his right hand fiddling with the wedding band. It made her smile.

" _Oz."_

Hearing her voice, Oswald startled, turning around. Seeing her, his face lit up like a firework, a smile reaching his eyes. He held out his hands to touch her, his fingers stroking over the back of her hands.

"Pigeon!" He breathed, confused that she was there suddenly, but beyond happy to see her again.

Through the spaces of the cell, Sylvia moved her head so they kissed briefly. She noticed that he smelled less hygienic but then again, he'd been roaming the streets for a month, hadn't he? She ignored it, only grateful that she saw him again.

Oswald took her in—she had no make-up on, her hair was thrown into a messy bun, and she wore the black sweats and camisole, and black flats. Compared to how he last saw her (in high heels and a dress), she looked a little rough around the edges—not to mention the dark circles under her eyes—But he couldn't help falling in love with her all over again.

"You look beautiful," He said quietly.

"Thank you. You don't look too bad yourself. Even when you _are_ dressed in a crumb bum's clothes." Sylvia said, grinning broadly at him.

She glanced at the bars, as though she was just noticing them. A barrier. He glanced at them too, and suddenly the heart-felt moment became one of dire situations.

"What happened?" Sylvia asked gently.

"What always happens," Oswald said cynically, shrugging.

"They caught you, I can see that." Concern furrowed her eyebrows. "What's _going_ to happen."

"I don't know, honestly."

His eyes flitted past her shoulder to observe the police officers who glanced coolly at them.

"But…It sounds like they might send me to Black Gate. If not there, then…"

"Arkham?"

He didn't confirm it, although he allowed himself a small smile: "Tell them you're insane, and you can come with me."

"That's not even the least bit funny."

"No, it's not. But looks who's trying not to smile." Oswald said, pointing at her with his index finger.

"Is it definite?"

"I honestly don't know, Pet. I'm about ninety percent positive, here."

"Did they do anything other than interrogate you?"

"No."

"Good." Sylvia sighed with relief. "I was thinking the worst when I heard."

"The worst?"

"Beatings with batons…maybe worse than that. The police here aren't exactly all gleaming with glitter and gold, sweetheart."

"How did you find out that I was here?"

"Ed called me."

Oswald glanced at Ed, who was perusing the files in a large metal cabinet, which was right beside his cell. It was only then that Sylvia noticed his presence. To the police's ignorance, Oswald and Ed had been talking only just a moment ago before she had come in. Ed peeped over his documents, meeting her eyes before quickly resuming 'looking' through the files.

Sylvia glanced at Oswald, who returned the curious expression.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Pigeon?" He asked, glancing between her and Ed suspiciously.

"Yes, but I wouldn't discuss it now."

"This is probably going to be your _only_ chance to talk to me. We don't know what Arkham is like—aside from the rumors."

Sylvia bit her lip, glancing at Ed then said in a voice softer than a whisper, "Ed kissed me."

Oswald stared at her.

" _HE DID WHAT_!"

"Shh! Shhh-shh!" Sylvia hushed insistently. "If you cause a scene, baby, I won't be able to stay here much longer!"

Obviously, being the smart man that he was, Ed seemed to gather what was just discussed. He cleared his throat, saying aloud "Well, I found what I'm looking for, better get on back to the Forensics lab!" And then high tailed it away from curious stares.

"It meant nothing, Ozzie," Sylvia cooed, trying to calm him down.

"I _knew_ there was something going on between you two," He seethed, glaring at her.

" _Nothing_ is going on between us."

"Oh please," He hissed. "Back in the apartment? Those longing looks, that odd humor you two share. Give me a break. And don't you even _dare_ lie to me—"

"—Oz—"

"What a _grand_ opportunity you chose to tell me now!" Oswald continued harshly. "Right when I'm about to be committed! You have an _impeccable_ talent for timing, _don't_ you, Sylvia!"

"Keep your voice down," She snapped.

"It's true, then."

"What is?"

"You and Ed," Oswald uttered, nearly spitting.

"Fine," Sylvia said quickly. "Fine. Fine—it's true, I _did_ feel a type of way for him, but—Oswald, look at me—it's not what you think, I swear!"

Oswald stepped back from the bars so Sylvia couldn't touch him, hold onto him, do what she may. Oswald knew how they worked by now—any part of her touching him would send him flying right back to her. He needed to be away from her. The feeling of betrayal was just a little too much at this moment.

"Sylvia, you're the last person I would expect—"

"—Trust me, Oswald. I swear to god I didn't do _anything_."

"You _kissed_ him!"

" _He kissed_ _**me**_!" Sylvia fired back, pointing at the direction in which Ed had quickly left. "I said—I told him my heart belonged with you—and it still does! Oz, please...look at me, _please_!"

Jim stood on the stairwell, having heard his sister's pleas from above. He leaned over the banister shortly, noticing that the commotion had also started attracting curious folk. Sylvia wasn't the type to cause a scene—that was Oswald's forte.

Sylvia begged, "Please, look at me, Oswald. Look at me—you know me, can't you tell when I'm telling the truth."

He lifted his eyes from the ground and met hers. They were desperately looking back at him. She was reaching through the bar, her hand outstretched, a silent, last-ditch desperate plea to bring him back to her. After all, it was only a matter of time before Oswald would be carted away. He glanced at the other officers around them, and he turned his icy glare to Sylvia.

"Tell me the truth then," He said coldly, stepping towards her.

She grasped onto the bars, trying to get close—like she'd nearly melt through them like a hot poker through butter.

"Do you love him?" Oswald asked harshly.

"No." Sylvia whispered.

"Louder. So I can hear you."

"I don't love him," Sylvia said, her voice breaking. "I don't. I love _you_. I choose _you."_

Oswald frowned saying, "How can I believe that?"

"How can you _not_? You have me, Ozzie. You _can't_ lose me. Remember? Hell or High Water. Please, baby, you know how I feel about you. You **know** me! I'd never betray you; I'm not lying to you, I _swear_."

Tears ran down her cheeks. Her bottom lip quivered.

Oswald pressed his lips tightly together, uncertain. He could see more emotion on her face than he'd ever witnessed before. Desperation in her eyes, how frantic they appeared. Oswald was standing in a cage, about to be shipped to the loony bin, and it was Sylvia who looked like she'd just come out of it. Her arm extended through the bars, reaching for him again.

Oswald gulped.

He took a few steps towards her. Her hand touched his clothes.

Once she got a hold of him, she didn't let go. Then he stepped a few more paces forward, and she took his hands, placing one on her cheek, the other over her chest where her heart was beating frantically.

"I love you, baby." Sylvia uttered emotionally. "I love you."

Oswald looked at her and said quietly, "I'm doing this for you, Pigeon. You know that, right?"

"I do. I _do_." Sylvia said, nodding her head. "But even if you weren't, I'd still love you, Oswald. You're mine. You're _mine_."

Oswald reached through the bars, doing his best to embrace her. Hearing her possession, that tone; it elicited his forgiveness. Sylvia smiled, in spite of the warm tears that ran down her cheeks.

"You're still my girl?" Oswald said softly.

"Always," She returned, sniffling. "Always and forever."

"I love you, Pigeon."

"As I love you."

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!" Barnes bellowed.

"So saith the Warden," Sylvia mumbled under her breath.

Oswald let out a chuckle, that was until Barnes came in between them, shoving Sylvia away from the cell. Jim came down the stairs quickly, and took Sylvia's arm, pulling her away from Barnes. She looked like she might attack him just for putting distance between her and Oswald.

"Just a friendly reunion between husband and wife," Jim said, clearing his throat when Barnes looked at him, ready to pounce.

"From all that hollering and drama I heard from the office, I doubt that, but okay," Barnes said irritably.

He glanced at Oswald. Then at Sylvia.

He said with finality, "Say your last good-byes, Cobblepots. Trust me. In Arkham, they keep the spouses apart for a _very_ long time. Let's see how long it takes before neither of you can recognize each other."

Barnes left the room and Sylvia glowered after him.

At that moment, an officer approached Oswald's cell, saying, "Turn away, face the cabinet—put your hands behind your back."

"What's happening?" Oswald asked. "Where are you taking me?"

"To Arkham, remember? You _are_ insane, aren't you?"

As Oswald was pulled through the station, he looked back at Sylvia. She bit her lip, looking after him. She offered a small smile. It was the last time he'd see her for a very long time—if what Barnes said was true. She wanted his last memory of herself to be smiling.

Once Oswald was in the van to leave for Arkham, Jim took Sylvia aside, back in the GCPD.

"What the hell was that all about?" Jim asked. "I could hear your conversation from the top floor."

"You mean 'your office'?" Sylvia chuckled, wiping her tear-stained cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. "I'm so sure you did."

"What had Penguin so riled up?" Jim asked, crossing his arms and leaning into Sylvia.

"I told him what happened the other day."

"Which is?"

"You don't need to know."

"Well, that's not how I see it. Penguin might find his way out of Arkham pretty easily—the man's a pragmatist. And the way he reacted, I'm thinking there's a life somewhere that'll be in danger. So please, enlighten me." Jim said through gritted teeth.

"Fine, you got a point. But you're not going to like it."

"Tell me anyway."

"Ed and I..."

Jim blinked: "Who?"

"Ed."

" _Ed_?" Jim repeated, looking at her incredulously. "Ed _Nygma_? What did he do?"

"He kissed me."

"HE DID WHAT!" Jim bellowed.

"JIM!" Barnes shouted. "WHAT IS IT NOW!"

"NOTHING, SIR!"

"THEN IF IT'S NOTHING, WHY THE HELL ARE YOU YELLING!"

"I LIKE TO MAINTAIN THIS TYPE OF VOLUME AT ALL TIMES, SIR!" Jim screamed back.

"WELL, USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE AT LEAST!" Barnes shouted. Then in his usual voice, he added, "Although I do appreciate the sentiment. Mrs. Cobblepot, I believe you were on your way out?"

"You know what, I think I was." Sylvia said, running a hand through her hair. She looked at Jim: "Escort me out?"

"Of course."

"Don't you mean 'OF COURSE, VEE!'"

"YES THAT'S WHAT I MEANT BUT FOR OUR SAKE, LET'S DO WHAT THE CAPTAIN SUGGESTED AND use our inside voice," Jim said, smirking back at her.

"SOUNDS LIKE A PLAN, JIM!" Sylvia scremaed back, grinning broadly.

They stood outside the GCPD station and Jim continued, "Ed kissed you?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"In my office."

" _Where_?"

"In my office, at my club," Sylvia clarified.

"I know where your office is," said Jim heatedly. "I'm just surprised he was there…." A moment passed. "Why the hell was he there?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"He wanted to talk."

"Talk about _what_?"

"Jim, calm down."

"I **am** calm." Jim said through gritted teeth. "Can't you tell?"

"It was a simple kiss. It didn't mean anything."

"It didn't mean anything to you, at least."

"Jim, don't you _dare_ go back inside," Sylvia said, snatching his arm. "You're going after Nygma, aren't you?"

"He kisses my sister, and I—"

"Shouldn't care," Sylvia finished for him. "I'm a grown fucking woman, James. I'll be fine. And the worst is over, so please, let's just drop it?"

"What happened after he kissed you."

"I made him leave. Nothing else happened. It was a mistake; Ed apologized."

"Well, I'm still going to have a talk with him."

"Jim."

"I'm going to have a nice, _calm_ chat with him."

"Jim!"

"Trust me, Vee. It's for the best. For all of us." Jim reassured, patting her back. He started inside the GCPD station, but Sylvia grabbed him by the belt of his pants and pulled him back.

"Would you stop for a second?" She snapped. "Just please do as I ask, and _drop it_. I don't want to hear about it anymore, okay?"

She rubbed her head from where the headache was starting to come back. Jim forgot about his temper when he noticed Sylvia was hurting.

"Are you okay?"

"It's a headache. I'll be fine."

"Need a doctor?"

"No, it's not life-threatening."

"It doesn't need to be life-threatening for you to visit a doctor," Jim pointed out.

"No. I don't need a doctor. It's just a headache. They come. They go."

Jim nodded and he hugged her suddenly. Sylvia looked at him, surprised.

"Thought that might help," Jim advised. "And it might be due to all that shouting inside."

"Probably. I'm going back to bed."

"Do you need me to take you?"

"No, I can take myself."

Sylvia kissed his cheek and walked to her car. After this, only alcohol could cure her ailments at this point.


	6. The Funeral

Chapter 6: The Funeral

* * *

Sylvia stood in the Meeting Room, staring into the fireplace. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her hair sat on her shoulders in untamed tangles and knots. Her skin had broken out in a cold sweat from yesterday's nightmares, leaving her hair frazzled, her pajamas wrinkled; dark circles lined under her blood shot eyes.

Two weeks had passed since Oswald had been carted off to Arkham Asylum. She'd considered taking a visit, but the last time she'd tried, Dr. Hugo Strange had strongly recommended a separation in order for Oswald's 'rehabilitation' to go more smoothly. She had protested, but he said that Oswald was in no danger to himself or to others, and that he was doing well and with the separation, their time apart would quickly come to a close with his release.

Since Strange wouldn't allow Sylvia to tear the Asylum apart in order to talk to her lover, he offered an exchange of addresses where Sylvia could write her husband and, in turn, Oswald was permitted to write her. But she felt he hadn't received any of her letters nor had he responded to any of hers if he did.

And then there was Gotham itself, the monster of all monsters.

Run an empire.

Seemed easy enough, didn't it? A meeting here, a meeting there. With the Five Families certain that she wouldn't break any time soon, she needn't worry about them trying to dethrone her. Even if the young Anderson was making his way up the Hit List.

Drake Anderson was a putz. A Yankee, Wall Street pup who wanted all the riches and class that came with being the big dog, but when it was time to be the wolf, his tail tucked between his legs and he'd go into hiding…. more snake, than dog in Sylvia's opinion. When things were getting tough and not so pretty, Sylvia was certain he'd slither back into his hole.

His father, at least, respected the boundaries. _She_ was in charge, he said. He'd have to respect her authority, no matter his misogynistic views.

The real threat—to be honest—was Tabitha Galavan.

In her seething reverie, Sylvia debated just killing the bitch. A quick shotgun round to the face and Tabitha would be gone. No need to look over her shoulder anymore, Sylvia could sleep like a baby. It was no less than what the bitch deserved for killing Gertrud, after all.

Ah….

Sylvia closed her eyes, feeling a slight pang in her chest. Yes…Gertrud. The funeral was this evening. Other than a power move being too brutal—even to Sylvia's taste—killing Tabitha was always a low priority, especially with Gertrud's funeral happening in the evening.

Even with all the mental preparation, Sylvia was still unable to stop the painful lodging in her throat…that sickening feeling of needing to cry, but desperately trying to hold it back until she could find a small bathroom to lock herself inside. Hold those emotions back, pretend to be strong in front of present company until she can be alone.

The pain seemed twice as bad, considering she'd be present at the funeral whereas Oswald would not be able to attend. She'd promised him in a letter that she would put Gertrud in the finest casket money could buy, to deck her grave with as many lilies as the boutique had in stock…the music would be all the arias Gertrud loved. A small funeral, it would be.

Whether Oswald ever received her letters, Sylvia wasn't ever sure. He never responded back.

"Lady Cobblepot."

Sylvia turned from the fireplace to glance at Mr. Bell who wore all black. He held a glass of tea in his hand, offering it to her. She took it lazily, but didn't drink from it.

"I just heard from the Father. Everything is in place." Mr. Bell stated somberly.

"Thank you."

"If I would be so bold to ask—"

"Mr. Bell," Sylvia said, holding up her unoccupied hand. "You've been a great confidante, and an excellent mentor and professional tutor. I personally consider you a friend. So, please. Be bold. Just speak your mind, okay?"

"Of course, my lady. Would you like some company?"

"You're standing in front of me, aren't you?"

"I meant to the funeral."

"I'm not in a talkative mood."

"You need not speak," Mr. Bell offered gently. "I find that in moments where the heart is hurting, it's favorable to have a shoulder to cry on."

"I'm not crying on your shoulder."

"I meant figuratively speaking."

"If you want to come, you can." Sylvia said, smiling too.

"We should be leaving soon. It's a twenty-minute drive."

"So it is."

"Any business you'd like me to tend to while we're out?"

"None that I can think of."

"Any messages you'd like me to send to Mr. Zsasz?"

"None that need be spoken," Sylvia answered. She sipped on the tea.

"Did he know Mrs. Kapelput?"

"No, but he knows the value of family. He recently left town to visit his grandmother. He heard about the funeral; he said he might drop by."

"That's nice of him."

Sylvia chuckled, "He says he wants to be there as a 'security consultant' but it's his own way of checking up on me."

"He's not the only one concerned about you, my lady."

"I know that."

"Dagger and Mr. Chilly are concerned about security as well."

"We've discussed this once before. I've not changed my mind: I don't want anyone bringing guns in a church."

"But Galavan and Gilzean—"

"Mr. Bell." Sylvia sighed exasperatedly, placing her glass of tea on top of the mantle. She looked at him solemnly, saying, "Right now, my husband is in an insane asylum. I've not heard or spoken to him in fourteen days…." (she glanced at her watch) "fourteen days, eight hours, fifty minutes, and thirty seconds. I've not slept in three days, thanks to my nightmares of said asylum, and my brother has been chasing a Frost Giant who makes ice sculptures out of the cops he freezes. Right now, Tabitha Galavan and her loyal gorilla are the very _last_ of my concerns."

Mr. Bell took this into consideration, offering a respectful nod of his head. However, he stated, "You might want to consider just eliminating them."

"I've considered it," said Sylvia half-heartedly.

"And?"

"That's it. I'm not making any rash decisions."

"Yet, you'd prefer to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life?"

"Not the rest of my life, no. I'm not worried about Butch. He knows that Gertrud's funeral is tonight. He—at least—still understands and respects the boundaries. There's a line you just don't cross. Making idle threats at a funeral is just damn disrespectful. And so is bringing guns into a church."

"Perhaps it would grant Dagger and Mr. Chilly some reassurance if they were permitted to stand _outside_ of the church?"

"They're overprotective, aren't they?"

"With all due respect, my lady…." He said seriously. "We _all_ are."

"'All'?"

"Indeed. Even Penguin's men."

"Gabe has always been protective," Sylvia uttered more to herself than to her manservant. "He's coming to the funeral too?"

"He wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Are all of you coming?"

"Purely for 'security consultation'." Mr. Bell said with a soft smile.

Sylvia chuckled, "You're too much."

Mr. Bell shared a laugh with her.

* * *

The funeral itself was like any funeral. A casket on the podium, open casket. Soft, but sad, music in the background, a few people Sylvia recognized but didn't know personally sat in the front row while her staff stood in the back, looking on.

Gertrud's body had been released from the morgue so she would be properly buried. She'd been dressed in the black and gold dress she'd worn at Sylvia's wedding; her make-up delicately applied to her eyes, ruby lipstick for her lips. She looked so peaceful, despite the violent way she'd gone.

Sylvia stood in front of the casket. She placed a bouquet of lilies over Gertrud's hands that rested on her stomach.

"Hi, Mama Cobblepot," Sylvia uttered quietly, smiling sadly. "You know…. people always say that the dead look like they're sleeping. I've seen a lot of dead people…. been the cause of it too, and I can say—out of personal experience—that I've never once met a peaceful dead person."

She looked at Gertrud's eyes, how relaxed they appeared.

"But I guess you've always been the exception. In the past. Now, in the present."

Sylvia took a lifeless hand in her own. Cold. Pale.

"I've not talked to my own mother in _years_ ," She continued. "I sometimes can't even remember what she looks like, or what she sounds like. I guess aside from you, I never really had a mother figure…. not unless you count Fish. You never met her—probably a good thing that you didn't."

Sylvia touched the lilies saying, "I know you like these. They're your favorite. I guess, I should say 'they were', but…. I'm not ready for that yet. And just so you know, I'm going to take care of your son. I know he meant a lot to you. Just as much as you meant to me."

Gertrud didn't say anything back. Sylvia didn't expect her to. But she inwardly hoped that the woman lying still on the table would suddenly jump up and say it was just a weird Hungarian prank and that Sylvia needn't cry. Gertrud didn't do anything of the sort. It seemed to make the moment darker…. sadder.

"I'm going to miss you, Mama. I love you." Sylvia uttered.

She leaned forward, kissing Gertrud's forehead.

A man stood beside her. Sylvia glanced up, and saw that it was her brother.

"Jim!" Sylvia gasped. "Why—what…."

"I heard the funeral was today," He explained, a solemn expression pressed into his face.

"I thought you were busy chasing the Frost Giant…."

Jim gave her a weird look, like he was put off guard by the nickname and he said curiously, "Is that what they're calling him?"

"That's what _I've_ been calling him. Why are you here?"

"I wanted to pay my respects," He answered, pulling a rose from the inside of his jacket pocket and placed it on the bouquet. "I wasn't sure what the flower would be, so…."

"Well, you didn't know her."

"No. I didn't. But I've interacted with her once, and from that—I know she was a nice lady."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Jim put an arm around his sister's waist, pulling her to him. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"Should I say a few words?" Jim asked uncomfortably.

"If you want."

"What do I say?"

"Whatever you want."

Jim cleared his throat and said quietly to Gertrud, "I admit, ma'am. I'm not good at this sort of—at this sort of thing, but…. I know you meant the world to Vee and you were there for her. It's a shame you died the way you did, but…. well, you're in a better place now."

Sylvia nudged him in the rib saying, "I've never seen you so awkward."

"Trust me, I'm actually holding _back_ some of my awkwardness."

"You're squirming."

"I don't normally attend funerals," Jim admitted quietly. "They make me—"

"—awkward?"

"Yeah."

Sylvia placed a hand on Gertrud's hand, patted it, and then strolled away from the casket with Jim holding her other hand.

An hour later, the casket was lowered into the hole at the cemetery. Sylvia wrapped her arms around herself, watching dirt piles cover the top of the oak box—Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, and Jim shoveled the piles from bigger piles into the hole.

"How're you holding up, kid?" Victor's voice came from behind her; he was walking up to the grave, and Sylvia glanced at him.

"'Kid'?" She repeated skeptically.

"I'd say you're a 'kid'."

"I'm two years older than you."

"Well, you look younger than me."

"Compliments in a graveyard," Sylvia uttered sardonically. "You have a dry sense of humor."

"It's one of my better qualities," said Victor charmingly. "And it's making _you_ smile so my reputation proceeds me."

"Whatever you say. How's your grandmother?"

"She's doing better."

"Did her fever go away?"

"After we dunked her into a bathtub of ice cubes," Victor said with a dark chuckle. "I've never heard bubbie curse in my entire life and she just said 'fuck' about twenty times. You'd think we were in a Quentin Tarantino flick."

Victor wrapped an arm around Sylvia's shoulders, pulling her to him.

He asked, "How did the funeral go?"

"As well as a funeral _can_ go."

"Any interruptions?"

"None."

"I'd have been here sooner."

Sylvia nodded, saying, "Did you finish the job?"

"Yep."

Sylvia watched the four men tap the grave with their shovels, making certain that it was nice and neat. Jim conversed with Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly about sports and whatever else small chat did to put him at ease while working with a bunch of criminals.

While Jim tried to pass the time with uncomfortable chatter, Sylvia turned to Victor curiously.

"Did Anderson give you much trouble?" She asked.

"No more than what I'm used to."

"What'd he say?"

"Nothing much. A short 'fuck you' and he was out of the door," Victor uttered, rolling his eyes as he gestured away from him—a possible direction that Drake Anderson would have stormed.

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him not to go against you, just as you asked me to say. He didn't like the sound of it. He thinks you're not fit to wear the crown, that you're losing control of the dynasty."

"'Dynasty'?"

" _His_ word, not mine," said Victor apathetically. "He's a wild one, Liv. You _really_ might want to consider getting rid of him before he—"

"—Vee—"

"—starts a mutiny..." Victor finished, glancing curtly at Jim after he was interrupted.

Jim came up to Sylvia, saying, "I have to get back to the station. Fries has killed seven cops and Barnes only allowed me to leave because of the circumstances…."

"Ah, how nice of Barnes," Sylvia said cynically. "So _caring_."

"Not now, Vee."

"I know." Sylvia said, waving her hand shortly at him. "Go save Gotham from that popsicle."

"Stay warm," Victor joked, smirking at Jim, who gave him a look before leaving the cemetery in a hurry. Once Jim was gone, Victor said to Sylvia, "Not a lot of humor in that sibling, is there?"

"There is, but you have to look deep, deep, deep, deep, _deep_ down." Sylvia returned humorously.

* * *

Dagger, Chilly, Mr. Bell, and Gabe walked with Sylvia through the graveyard. They were on their way back to the car when the sound of a gun being cocked stopped them in their stride.

Sylvia turned slowly and she let out a derisive chuckle when she saw Tabitha Galavan standing before her. A sidearm raised shoulder-level in her hand, cocked, and aimed at her. Dagger and Chilly bared their fists, ready to draw their own weapons, doing so quickly despite the woman already having drawn hers.

Mr. Bell moved to the side, standing just in front of Sylvia, putting his arm up protectively in front of her. A bullet wouldn't be stopped if Tabitha squeezed the trigger, Mr. Bell knew that. But he'd be damned not to try.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sylvia questioned lowly.

Tabitha opened her mouth to speak but Butch had come up from behind her and said, "Tabby, I told you ' _don't shoot_ '."

Tabitha turned to him saying flippantly, "I _didn't_ shoot. I'm _aiming._ There's a difference!"

"We're in a damn cemetery!" Butch exclaimed, gesturing wildly to the graves. "Do you have any idea how disrespectful that is?"

"Oh, shut up!" She hissed. "We talked about this."

" _You_ talked. I listened, and I disagreed. Communication, Tabby." Butch chastised, shaking his head. He moved forward and forced Tabitha's arm that held the gun downward, snatching the weapon out of her hand and forcibly placing the safety back on. "Remember who's in charge? Huh?"

Sylvia held up her hand slowly. Reluctantly, Dagger and Chilly sheathed their guns, glancing at one another before doing so. Mr. Bell remained on high alert, glaring at the two people just out of principle.

"What do you want?" Sylvia asked.

"You know what we want," Tabitha snapped.

"Tabby! Again! Seriously?"

"She _knows_ what we want, Butch. She's just playing dumb!"

"But you don't have to be so rude!"

"I'm not being rude."

"You're being rude _now_."

Sylvia sighed, looking downward. She said more calmly, "What is it that you want, Miss Galavan? Hmm? Do you want control of the empire, is that it? Do you want to kill me?"

She moved past Mr. Bell who stumbled back when she pushed him slightly as Sylvia advanced towards Tabitha. The latter stood at least a foot taller than she, but Sylvia never looked so assertive. Her eyes met Tabitha's, the heat coming back to them.

" _Do_ you want to kill me?" Sylvia breathed. "Because **I** " (she took one more step towards Tabitha) " _certainly_ want to kill _you_. You're the person who put my mother-in-law in the ground; you're responsible for her death, and you know what that makes me? Responsible for _yours_."

"We're not here to kill you," Butch said cautiously, holding onto Tabitha with his good hand. "We're here to negotiate."

"I'm not negotiating anything."

"We don't need any more death," Butch insisted. "But we can't have 'nothing'."

"You _can_ have nothing," Sylvia countered. "You can have less than nothing for all I fucking care."

"You're not being fair," Tabitha growled. She glared at Butch, "She isn't!"

"I can stab you in the back if you like," Sylvia offered snidely. "That might even the playing field a bit, I think."

Tabitha sent her a deadly look, but Butch was insistent on peaceful terms. He held up his metal hand, looking more cautious if not dreadful of the consequences that would come if Sylvia completely lost her patience. They were outnumbered, after all.

"We want half of Gotham," Butch said slowly. "Half of half, even."

"You want to be partners?" Sylvia chuckled. "If you want to talk business, Butchy, you will meet me in the mansion. I don't discuss business in the open—never the less, in a fucking graveyard. That's just a mobster cliché."

"Liv—" Butch began.

Sylvia suddenly strode forward and gave him a hard kick in between his legs. He grunted, held his crotch, and stumbled back, groaning in pain. Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, and Mr. Bell all winced. Tabitha looked murderous, but for the sake of her life, she didn't dare move forward to hurt their queen.

"Only my friends call me that," Sylvia said dangerously. "And you, Butch, _lost_ that privilege when you _shot_ Josh and went along with **her** " (she gestured violently to Tabitha) "and killed my mama. And I would never— **never—** think of partnering up with you after what you put my family through!"

"Okay…." Butch squeaked, looking up at her. "Okay, okay…. Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Better," Sylvia said darkly. "But you're still on my everlasting shit list."

"We'll take one-eighth of Gotham, then. Not even. Maybe one-sixteenth!" Butch said when he saw Sylvia's cynical expression. "A fraction even smaller—just something!"

"That's not good enough!" Tabitha snapped. "You might as well just _give_ everything to her in the first place!"

Sylvia chuckled, "You can't give what you never had. And you, Miss Galavan, never had _anything_. Your brother did—he was rich. But you were just his lapdog."

Tabitha frowned, saying, "You were Penguin's lapdog too, you know. Remember?" She smirked and whispered tauntingly, "... _Pigeon_..."

Sylvia glowered at her. She looked at Butch, who stared incredulously at Tabitha.

"What the hell is the matter with you!" It was Butch's turn to snap. "Do you _want_ to get shot!"

"We deserve this," Tabitha growled back. "We _earned_ the right to rule, it's _our_ turn!"

"Spoiled little brat," Sylvia muttered. "You know, you want the empire back so badly, you could have it!"

Tabitha stared at her. Did she say what she thought she said? However, Sylvia stepped forward and a huge smile was on her face, a creepy, happy one at that.

"But no one, Miss Galavan—and I do mean 'no one'—will follow you. They love _me_." Sylvia said softly. "They like _me_. They obey **me**. You want to contest me, you want to challenge me for the throne, go 'head. But you will fail. You will _lose_. I can guarantee that without a doubt. And when you do, I will put you off your pedestal, and I will put you in. _The. Ground_."

Butch uttered, "Babe, let's go."

Tabitha frowned, glancing at him, then looking at Sylvia. As though on cue, Dagger, Chilly, Mr. Bell, and Gabe all readied their weapons. Cocking them. And they raised it up slowly, waiting for Sylvia's cue. It wasn't a hard decision.

"Fine," Tabitha scoffed.

She turned on her heel, her long ponytail whipped up behind her. Butch glanced after her, a small expression of concern and guilt crossed his features, but he followed her wordlessly.

Sylvia watched after them.

"As you were, boys." She said gently, looking at them all. "The angry bitch is gone; you can rest easy now."

"She _really_ gets on my nerves," Dagger grumbled, glaring after her.

"You and me both, big guy." She said, patting his big shoulder. "Who wants a drink?"

Everyone raised their hands, including Mr. Bell.

"Great minds think alike!"


	7. A Strange Visit

Chapter 7: A Strange Visit

* * *

Victor Fries. That was the Frost Giant's name. According to the papers, he was a menace to society, a whack job, freezing people, including a pharmacist, seven police officers—aside from that, no one knew why the man was doing this horrible thing. What possessed a man to act like that?

Gotham was the breeding ground for lunatics. There was no doubt about that.

Sylvia took a seat at Gertrud's grave. The cemetery was the only place it seemed where lunatics sobered. Even if it was just for a moment.

She visited twice this week, excluding the initial when the casket was buried into the ground. For the most part, Sylvia was silent. There was no use talking to the dead, was there? She could get a few words out before she felt like she was talking to the wind; no one else would hear her, but she could hear the loneliness in her voice.

She had her staff wait in the car; Mr. Bell had insisted on accompanying her, but she'd protested. After her confrontation with Tabitha Galavan, she doubted there would be another bold move made for now. She had made her point quite clear with the both of them, after all.

"Lilies."

When Sylvia spoke, her voice was hoarse. She placed a single flower on the headstone, smiling sadly at it before sitting on her knees, looking at the marble work.

"I thought I'd visit you again, Mama. Just letting you know that Oswald is thinking about you all the time. I'm assuming he is—I've not spoken to him in quite some time, but I'm hoping for the better. I can't afford to think of the worst right now."

" _Sylvia?"_

She glanced up and over her shoulder when she heard the voice, and gave Edward Nygma a shadowy gaze before turning back to look at the headstone. Ed approached cautiously, holding a bouquet of lilies, wearing a dark brown plaid suit. He wordlessly placed the bouquet on Gertrud's grave.

"Why are you here?" Sylvia asked.

"I promised Oswald that I'd make the occasional visit." Ed explained. "It's the least I could do."

"That's all?"

"Yes, that's all."

Sylvia watched him, looked him up and down to search for any sort of lie, but Ed appeared sincere in his intentions.

"I have to apologize to you again," He said quietly, placing his hands in his pockets. "What I did before—I don't know what came over me. Something possessed me…."

"Are you sure it wasn't _him_?" Sylvia asked skeptically. When Ed looked at her questionably, she emphasized, "The _other_ you?"

"I don't know, honestly," He said, uncertain. "I suppose I _could_ blame it on the other me but that wouldn't be very honest of me…Would it?"

"It wouldn't be. It'd be cowardly to blame your actions on someone else, but then again, look who we're talking about here," Sylvia said tiredly, gesturing to him.

Ouch…

"I truly _am_ sorry." Ed uttered.

Sylvia stood, looking around at him, "Apology accepted."

"Are we still friends?"

"I need space away from you." Sylvia told him seriously. "Despite what resentment I have towards you for kissing me without my consent, I can't be a fucking hypocrite. The truth is I thought it was nice—but I've told you before…I can't. And I can't be around you."

"We can't be friends?"

"We can, but—right now—I can't be _physically_ around you," She clarified.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Yes, social cues have never really been your strongest suit."

Ed gave her a mildly annoyed look but he didn't press it. Sylvia approached him, arms crossed over her chest, shuddering away that cold chill that ran up her back. She felt like she was being watched by more than just her staff, or by Ed Nygma. Being in the open always made her feel paranoid, but this was something else. A growing ominous presence.

"I told Oswald that you kissed me. I'm sure you heard."

"Yes. He wasn't exactly yelling in _dulcet_ tones," Ed muttered remorsefully. "I'd apologize to _him_ if he wasn't for the fact that he was in…you know…."

"Arkham—it wouldn't matter anyway. Dr. Strange isn't letting anyone visit him—including me," Sylvia said darkly.

"That's strange."

"No kidding."

"No pun intended either."

"Hmm." Sylvia mumbled. "I have the worst feeling."

"You could ask Detective Gordon if he knows anything," Ed offered as a reprieve, gesturing behind him towards the direction of the GCPD. "He's been working the case on Victor Fries."

"Why would Jim know anything about Oz?"

"He had to go to Arkham."

" _What_?"

"Not in the committal sense," Ed clarified, clearing his throat. "The GCPD discovered that Victor Fries has a wife. A woman named Nora. Apparently, she's _dying_."

"Dying? Aren't we all," Sylvia said sarcastically, "What's special about her? Why is she going to Arkham? Did the judge declare her insane as well?"

"She's dying. Physically. Arkham has a lot more security, a lot more lunatics—I don't mean Penguin, sorry, Sylvia—but it's better for the inmates to be frozen to death by chance than the patients at Gotham General. So says Captain Barnes, anyway"

At the last bit, he inwardly rolled his eyes.

"Why go to Arkham at all? She needs a hospital if she's dying."

"They used her as bait. To bring Victor out into the open, per se."

"Wait, they're using Arkham as a _fortress_?"

"Used."

"What?"

"They _used_ it as a fortress. It's done and over with now," Ed said, placing his hands behind his back.

"They made Arkham a _war zone_?" Sylvia said incredulously. "No wonder why Strange wouldn't let me in."

"Well, Barnes did mention that the rehabilitation processes are more extensive than the usual check-in/check-out business in Gotham General," He reminded. "Spouses are regularly separated for betterment of rehabilitation."

"Meaning _what_ exactly?"

Ed said darkly, "Hasn't it ever occurred to you why Strange won't let you see Oswald?"

"Because I'm his spouse."

"Because you're his _trigger_."

"Pardon?"

Ed shrugged, "You're his co-conspirator. You've never spoken a word of reproach, no matter what he wanted to do. Ambush the mayor, you say 'go!'. Kill the mayor, you volunteered as tribute. Everything he's done, you've never once protested."

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing."

" _Strange_ might think it's a bad thing."

"I suppose he could think that. Wait. Why the hell am I still talking to you?" Sylvia asked. "I told you I need physical distance."

"We both know why you're still talking to me."

"Do we?"

"You're lonely," Ed noted, pointing at her. A small, empathetic smile reached his eyes. "You want to talk to someone who's on the same level of intellect. We both know _I_ am."

Sylvia crossed her arms again judgmentally, ready to counter his premise. But only to find that he was right.

Mr. Bell could offer some intellectually stimulating conversation, but that's all she had for it. Despite Ed kissing her, making her fly off the handle, and having nearly placed a wedge between her and Oswald at the worst time possible (despite having the situation clear up in a matter of minutes due to thorough communication), Ed was still her friend.

"I passed a boundary the other day." Ed said quietly. "A boundary I was certain I would never cross. And I'm sorry for that, Liv."

"I accepted your damn apology, Ed. No need to keep saying you're sorry."

"I can't help it. I hate it when you're angry at me."

Sylvia ignored his pathetic response and said coolly, "Do you think Strange is trying to change Oswald?"

"Rehabilitation." Ed reminded like the word explained everything.

"He's fine the way he is."

"So _you_ say," said Ed, gesturing to her with a light sway of his body. "But the doctor might think otherwise. You killed with Oswald. You killed _for_ Oswald. Having you anywhere near the hospital might rehash all of Oswald's more negative qualities, supersede all that work Strange has done to 'rehabilitate'" (Ed dramatically bunny-eared the word) "him, and he'd have to start all over."

Sylvia sighed deeply, "I wish there was just _one_ place in Gotham that _wasn't_ fucking dirty. You know? Is that so much to ask for?"

"Not necessarily. But Gotham is a whole different animal." He looked around for a second before asking her quietly, "Do you feel like you're being watched?"

"I'd say that's the paranoia kicking in, but you know, I've been having that feeling all day." She answered. A second after, she emphasized, "Well, _more_ than usual."

"We should leave."

"Not together, though."

"Of course not." Ed agreed. "That might look a little—"

"—Suspicious?" Sylvia offered.

"Well, _I_ was going to say 'weird', but 'suspicious' works too."

Sylvia started walking away. She stopped in mid-step then turned to look at Ed, who curiously met her gaze, noticing she was coming back to him.

"Thank you for the talk." Sylvia said softly.

"Anytime."

She nodded then quickly left for the car. The feeling of being watched was growing more eerie by the minute.

* * *

Sylvia walked into Dr. Strange's office, choosing to sit opposite of him. His desk was cleared of any files he'd been perusing prior to calling her back into the room. She'd requested yet another visit to see her husband, and when she argued with Ms. Peabody, the nurse deferred her to him.

She rigidly seated, her back leaned stiffly against the chair, her hands folded on her lap.

She'd been in the presence of criminal masterminds, in the company of murderers, rapists, thieves, and mobsters alike, and never felt so unnerved as she did, sitting before the head of psychiatry. He peered through his circular, pink-tinted glasses as he silently sipped from a cup of tea. For a moment, no one said anything; he was waiting for her to initiate the conversation, despite knowing why she was here.

"Would you care for a cup of tea?" He offered, holding up his own indicatively. "I take sugar and lemon in mine."

"I don't want tea."

"It would relax you."

"With all due respect, I'd rather not. Tea relaxes me, sure, but I wish to be tense."

"You _want_ to be tense?"

"It's my baseline at this point," Sylvia admitted starkly. "And you know why I am here, so if we could…."

"Yes…." Strange drawled, smiling at her politely. "I know why you are here. Ms. Peabody explained to me your egregious concerns, but as I've explained before: your husband is in perfect hands."

"If he were in _my_ custody, I could believe that. But he's not. He's in your facility." Sylvia returned callously. "Arkham isn't exactly a five-star hotel either, so don't try to placate me with that fancy hospitality."

Strange placed his cup on the tiny China-made saucer in front of him, and scooted it away from him delicately before interlacing his fingers together, watching her through his pink glasses. He observed her frigid stance, the look of spite growing noticeably on her face, but there was still a tinge of concern.

"I've written to my husband. _Several_ times." Sylvia stated curtly. "I've never received anything back. Not one letter."

"He's been deeply involved in his treatment."

"It's not like him not to talk to me."

"Well, that depends. Does he _always_ tell you what he's doing?"

"He doesn't always tell me _everything_ , but not hearing from him isn't like him at all," Sylvia stressed. "Treatment or no treatment. Personally, I'd feel a lot better if I could just talk to him, see him in person? I'd get out of your hair, and you wouldn't have to harassed by my lawyers regarding patient rights, assuming you prefer _not_ to be sued."

"Coming into a hospital, talking about politics and lawyers," sighed Strange. "Perhaps you could use a bit of treatment yourself."

"I'm not insane."

"You're in love, aren't you?"

Sylvia blinked: "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"Love is a form of madness," Strange said gently. "I can tell that loving your husband has definitely driven you mad—although, I have to say, you look a _lot_ better since the last time I saw you. Not nearly as haggard or disheveled as before."

Sylvia sent him an icy glare. But he wasn't wrong. When Oswald was first committed, she'd burst through his office wearing sweats, flats, a red tank top, and her hair was all over the place, make-up smeared from a long night of panic attacks and desperate crying. Now, she was in a white V-neck blouse, black pencil skirt, shiny, black high heels, and tan stockings. Her hair was pulled back into a long, shoulder-length braid.

"I can understand your cause for concern," Strange continued in that tone of caution. "Separation anxiety can be quite stressful for both spouses, for people who have spent very little time apart. I can tell that you're very protective of him...but I sense there's something more. You mentioned a law suit—may I know the matter you are wishing to pursue?"

"Negligence," Sylvia stated darkly. "Hypocrisy."

"'Hypocrisy'? That's a new one."

"You want me to 'relax', to not be concerned, but you're avoiding the matter altogether, which is what is making me _highly_ concerned. You tell me it's all about rehabilitation, for betterment of treatment, but I think it's a charade, a fucking lie." Sylvia said harshly. "You want to make me relax? Don't offer me a cup of fucking tea. Let me talk to my husband. If you don't, I _will_ sue you."

"The patient is physically stable, mentally and emotionally—He's fine."

"The _spouse_ **isn't** fine!" Sylvia snapped, getting to her feet furiously. "You're keeping us apart, Strange! And I want to know why!"

"I _told_ you why."

"You've told me a _reason_. But it's not the truth."

"The reason I've given _is_ the truth."

"Okay," Sylvia huffed, straightening. "You want to play word games, Strange? How about I take my heel and shove it up your—"

Strange stood slowly to his feet, hands out in front of him. Cautious.

"Now, now, Mrs. Cobblepot. Calm."

"Don't tell an angry person to calm down!" Sylvia responded coldly. "It's counterproductive. Have you ever _tried_ to calm down! It's a fucking _paradox_."

"Mrs. Cobblepot, please try to understand. I'm acting on behalf of your husband."

"On behalf of _my_ husband?" Sylvia retorted. "You don't _know_ my husband."

"On a contrary," Strange drawled, slowly sitting back in his seat. "I have a contract here. Hold on, let me get that out for you to read. It has his statement…." He placed a vanilla-colored folder in front of her, and slowly pushed it in her direction.

Sylvia snatched it, opening it up to see a written contract. It was in Oswald's handwriting, stating that he did not wish to see her—Sylvia Cobblepot—until after he graduated his rehabilitation process for betterment of treatment, and also gave Arkham Asylum permission to restrict her from any contact. Including but not limited to withholding any letters that he would send out, as well as the disposal of hers.

She looked at Strange incredulously, slowly holding up the written contract, saying, "This was coerced out of him."

"How can you tell?"

"How can I _not_!" Sylvia snapped, throwing the paper at him. "He couldn't stand being away from me for a day, never the less a month—and you want me to believe that he'd sign away our relationship to partake in _your_ therapy? Not happening."

"It's frustrating, I can imagine—"

"Don't _placate_ me!" Sylvia retorted, violently pointing at him. "This isn't some fucking hospital, this is a fucking _prison_."

"Well, he _is_ a convicted criminal," offered Strange in an attempt to sound reasonable. "He murdered the mayor. That's not something a _sane_ person would do."

Sylvia stared at him. Well, she couldn't argue his point—after all, _she_ was the one that killed Galavan. But there needed to be a way to fight the system, right?

"You're turning him against me, aren't you?" Sylvia questioned hatefully. "You're switching the wires in his brain, changing _him_."

"That's what rehabilitation is about, Mrs. Cobblepot. Change. Change for the _better_."

She leaned over his desk slowly, a danger in her eyes. He noticed the sign, and although he could call for security, state that he was acting under duress, he chanced to see just what Sylvia was prepared to do to see her husband again. There was a lot less self-control in her when Oswald wasn't around telling her how to act, what to do—Strange noticed it, and he smiled.

"You're torturing him in there, aren't you?" Sylvia said quietly.

"I assure you, Mrs. Cobblepot, we are doing _no_ such thing. I don't condone violence."

"Shock therapy isn't violent?"

"It's _therapy_. And you've assumed the worst."

"I assume the worst thing possible—the worst thing _imaginable_ is that you've decided to do a lobotomy and have proceeded take out his brain. It's the only explanation I could find that would explain why he'd sign away the privilege of seeing me." Sylvia returned resentfully. "I spoke with a colleague of mine" (she sat down) "and he mentioned that there's a possibility I may be Oswald's trigger. Is _that_ why you've refused to let me see him?"

"How interesting," Strange drawled, smirking at her.

"What is?"

"You are. To have that sort of strong insight, that perception of one's self. It's remarkable, really. _Do_ you believe you are a trigger? His reason for committing violence?"

Sylvia crossed her arms defensively, saying, "I'm not his source of agitation, if that's what you're implying. I'm a source of nurturing and comfort, if I'm anything."

"I'm not implying anything."

"I think you are."

"I assure you I'm not."

"Well, _I_ assure you that _I_ think you are." Sylvia retorted. "And you're hiding something. You're hiding what you're really doing in this fucking hospital, and you're pretending that I'm just a concerned wife, so confused, so disoriented."

"Aren't you?"

"I'm a concerned wife, but I'm not fucking stupid," She insisted curtly. "You're trying to change him, to make him something he's not."

"A better man?"

"He _is_ a good man."

"I said 'better'."

"You say he can be made into a 'better' man. You're implying that he's not good _enough_." Sylvia said through gritted teeth. "Who are _you_ to say that he isn't?"

"There's that protective urge coming out of you. Oh, yes. I can see it." Strange uttered slowly. "I'll make it clear for you: Oswald Cobblepot is a convicted criminal, and was pronounced insane by his doctors, his lawyers, and was placed under my care for treatment. For rehabilitation. He is sick, and like any sickness, it _can_ be treated. He _has_ been resistant to our processes, but that's not uncommon. Like with any big bug, there are bigger antibiotics. I can, however, say that he has been making excellent progress, despite the aggressive treatment."

"Aggressive?" Sylvia uttered, biting her lip nervously.

"Your husband is uncooperative."

"So you _have_ been torturing him."

"Torture isn't what we do here at the asylum."

"Not on paper at least," said Sylvia sarcastically, sending him a cruel smile. She stood to her feet. "You're a liar, doctor. A liar, a corrupt little weasel. I can't do anything right now—no matter how much I want to wring your scrawny neck. But make sure to remember this: if he comes out of this hospital with any injury, I will have a personal vendetta against not just your hospital and staff, but against _you_."

She straightened and walked off.

Strange looked after her and when he was sure she was gone, he called in Ms. Peabody, who entered the room shortly after watching Sylvia leave. The large nurse exchanged oppressed looks with the doctor, who smiled only after.

"She knows, doesn't she?" Peabody said unhappily.

"I would expect she does. She isn't naive like the rest of the families we dealt with in the past," Strange said lowly. "She is intelligent, perceptive…."

"You sound like you admire this woman." Peabody uttered.

Strange glanced at her through the side of his glasses saying, "She has passion. Gumption. A woman like that is hard to find in Gotham, one that has both her head in the clouds but her feet on the ground."

"Do you suspect she will come back with a lawyer?"

"No."

"You believe it was just bawdy talk?" suggested Peabody, a hint of curiosity.

"I think she meant well," said Strange, shaking his head.

"She wasn't wrong about the torture."

"Therapy, Ms. Peabody. Shock _therapy_ is a **form** of therapy. But her knowledge and perception do not worry me. Mrs. Cobblepot shows healthy—albeit agitated—concern for our patient, passion for his health. She seems overprotective, though."

"That, I believe," Peabody muttered. "I heard her threatening you from down the hallway."

"Not unlike how a mother would react when she is unable to protect her flock."

"What do you mean, doctor?"

Strange held a pencil in his hand, scribbling a few notes as he said, "Sylvia, herself, is an excellent study. From my sessions with Mr. Cobblepot—how he talks about his mother and how he talks about his wife are one in the same. Clearly, she's taken on the role of being both the spouse as well as the mother figure in his life, enabling Mr. Cobblepot's uninhibited Mother Complex. It's only worsened, now that his mother was murdered. Whether either of them are aware of that is still yet to be explored."

"Is that your professional opinion?" Peabody said humorously.

"In layman's terms: he has mommy issues, having formed an unhealthily close relationship with the biological. Granted, all of us subconsciously search for genetics in our significant others that were once mirrored in our parents," Strange said crudely, making Peabody chuckle. "My professional opinion is that Oswald and Sylvia Cobblepot not only want each other, but to be optimally functional _need_ one another. They are symbiotic…both of them have exhibited signs of separation anxiety."

"That sounds toxic."

"On the contrary, I think on some level it's really sweet. And it's fascinating how each of them have found a little of what they needed in _each_ _other_. A perfect love story."

"Let's agree to disagree."

"Of course." Strange chuckled.

"Don't forget about your meeting with the Head of Finances. Later today."

"Oh right, I nearly forgot. _Thank_ you for reminding me—what with the excitement of Mr. Fries and his wife freezing in a room and the rambunctious conversation with Mrs. Cobblepot—I nearly lost track of time!" Strange said, grinning widely. "Let's be on our way, shall we?"


	8. To Feel Nothing

Chapter Eight: To Feel Nothing

* * *

It was a cold night. Rain fell on every house and apartment building in Gotham. There was barely any visibility through window or windshield. While it was freezing outside, it was warm inside the mansion, a toasty fire crackling beneath the mantle.

Well, warm to everyone except for Sylvia.

Two blankets were gathered over her body, and she was swaddled like a newborn baby underneath them. She'd lain in bed for two days straight, only leaving the bedroom when she needed to go to the bathroom. While the cold had some effect on her, it didn't explain her sluggishness or indifference to the world and the people surrounding her.

Mr. Bell would come by the doorway, attempting to boost her spirits. He would tell her to get out of the house, go on a run with him, or take a walk in the park, but nothing seemed to pull her out of her blues. She just did not want to get out of bed; it consumed too much energy to do so, energy she didn't have.

She was always feisty and fiery, and when she wasn't, people noticed. Everyone in the mansion could tell. Jim, included.

He stopped by the mansion, pausing when Dagger and Chilly decided to pat him down for any other weapons than the one that was issued to him by the GCPD. After giving them ironic looks, Jim was granted permission when Mr. Bell excused their suspicion, insisting that Jim was their guest. Despite their chagrin, the brutish thugs stepped aside and allowed Jim to pass between them; he followed Mr. Bell through the mansion.

"She won't eat," said the manservant worriedly as he strolled through the hallway, although he hardly appeared content; he had an uncertain trudge, like he was walking to his death—being someone that had a record for cheering up his Mistress, perhaps this _was_ similar to a deadly situation.

"She won't drink. She lies in bed day and night." Mr. Bell continued, glancing at Jim to see that he mirrored him in concern.

"How long has she been like this?" Jim asked.

"A couple days. After the funeral, I expected it. But I fear that she has gotten worse."

"Does she have a fever?"

"Physically, she's fine." Mr. Bell clarified, leaving much of the explanation to Jim's detective skills. "I'm sure she's just distraught and that is all….not exactly comforting, mind you. If it was an ailment, I'd be able to fix it."

"Really?" Jim said, surprised. "Are you a doctor?"

"Well, I don't have a PhD hanging in my office. But I daresay I know a tad bit more than your fancy GCPD, Detective."

Jim held up a hand cautiously, saying, "I didn't mean to offend."

"I'm sure you didn't. But you have a way about you that makes people feel otherwise."

"You're not the first person to tell me that."

"I wouldn't think so."

Mr. Bell entered the bedroom; prior to that, he knocked on the door.

There wasn't any response—no acknowledgement for either of them to enter. They didn't wait for it. Instead, Mr. Bell moved through the doorway, signaling for Jim to come forward. The manservant stood by Sylvia's bed.

"Lady Cobblepot, the detective is here to see you. James Gordon." Mr. Bell announced.

She glanced up at him, her eyes seemed to peer right through him before she lowered her head back to the fluffy pillows. With a sigh of resignation, Mr. Bell left him to it, leaving the room.

Sylvia was staring listlessly at the end table beside her bed. On it was a frame, inside it was a picture of her and Oswald's wedding photo.

Jim cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was fine when she was yelling at him, verbally emasculating, or even when they were aiming their weapons at each other. Sylvia's indifference was unbearable. Jim advanced, standing just in front of her bed; she didn't so much as glance at him this time. He sheathed his hands inside the pocket of his pants, strolling forward, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

When he had shown no sign of giving up, Sylvia looked at him with a hint of annoyance.

"What do you want, Jim?" She asked tonelessly. "Mr. Bell called you, didn't he?"

"Your people called _my_ people. And yes. Mr. Bell called. But other people are worried too, Vee. You couldn't imagine my surprise when I heard Victor Zsasz asking for _my_ help."

"Go away."

"I said I would stop by."

Sylvia met his eyes and she said in the same flat tone, "So you have. Now, please leave."

Jim sighed, taking his hands out of his pockets. He gestured for her to move a little so he could sit on the edge; she barely moved a centimeter, only putting her head into the palm of her hand. He sat down on what little room she had provided.

"I hate seeing you like this, Vee."

"Then stop looking."

"You're depressed."

"I wish."

Jim's eyes flickered over her general disposition: "What do you mean?"

"I don't feel anything," She said, looking at him with only her eyes. "I don't feel angry, or sad….I don't feel anything. I'm numb."

"Perhaps that's for the best."

"It's a sickening feeling. I'd rather feel rage than _nothing_ at all."

Jim nodded. He could understand that feeling.

That's why he almost always chose anger instead of sadness…pain instead of nothing. Sometimes it was better to feel _something_ than to feel nothing—at least, then, one could feel just a little alive. He placed his hand on her shoulder, gently massaging the bone. She glanced at him warily, a small hint that she didn't want anyone touching her but she didn't shy away from it either.

So that was something.

"Is this about Edward Nygma?"

"Why would it be about him?" She asked listlessly.

"He kissed you. He _was_ the reason for your quibble down at the station…when Oswald was being booked, wasn't it?"

"Yes, he was the reason we argued. No…he is not the reason why I feel the way I feel."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It isn't about him."

"Then why are you acting like this?" Jim asked, taking his hand from her.

"I don't know."

"Come on, Vee. Talk to me."

"I don't want to talk to you." Sylvia murmured, closing her eyes. "I told Mr. Bell…I told him…."

"Told him what?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm too tired to talk."

"You _need_ to talk."

"I don't _need_ to do anything," Sylvia responded airily, glancing at him. " _You_ want to talk. **I** want to go to sleep."

"How much sleep have you had in the past two nights?"

"I don't know. Thirty…Forty…hours. Maybe more. Don't know. I didn't count."

"That's a lot. And Mr. Bell says you don't eat."

"Why do you care."

"You're my sister."

"So what."

Jim suppressed the urge to slap her. For someone who was always so passionate—whether that was kissing her husband or chewing people out—Sylvia's lackadaisical attitude was pissing him off. Jim placed his hand on her shoulder again, an attempt to comfort her. She didn't even startle.

"You need to get out of bed."

"I told you. I don't need to do anything. Just leave me alone."

"Is it your empire?"

"The empire is holding."

"It can't run itself."

"Well, it is." Sylvia murmured. She closed her eyes again, sighing, "I'm just tired. Please let me rest."

"You slept for twenty-four hours. You're not tired."

"Stop telling me what I am and what I am not."

"Vee…."

" _What_!" Sylvia suddenly snapped, glaring at him. She sat up. "What the _fuck_ do you want from me, _Jim_!"

"I want to know what's wrong. Tell me."

"How can I tell you what's wrong if _I_ don't even know!" She retorted, gesturing to him furiously. "I just want people to leave me alone! Is that so much to fucking ask—god!"

She laid back in bed, her head slapping against the pillow as she glared furiously at him. Jim remained silent—it seemed like it was the best thing to do, for her and for his self-preservation. He watched the fury leave her eyes, that spark disappearing.

When he didn't argue with her, the apathy returned.

"I talked to Strange." Sylvia said quietly.

"Did you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And?"

"He wasn't much help."

"I spoke to Strange as well."

"Did you?" She asked. "What did you find out?"

"Nothing much. I saw Oswald in the asylum, though," Jim offered. "Saw him there when Harvey and I took Nora Fries there."

"How did he look?"

"Calm."

"You mean 'sedated'," Sylvia corrected cynically. "Good job, by the way. Making Arkham your own battle ground. _That_ was a good idea."

"How did you find out about that?"

"Ed told me."

"I thought you stopped talking to him."

"He's my friend."

"He kissed you."

"And he apologized," Sylvia insisted. "Right now, he is—quite literally—my only friend. If it wasn't for Mr. Bell or my people caring about me, would _you_ have even come to check on me and make sure I was fine?"

"I assumed you were."

"You assumed? Well, look where that got you."

"When Barnes arrested Oswald, I had no idea you'd fall into a state of depression, Vee," said Jim reprovingly. "How could I have predicted that?"

"My life gets threatened pretty much on a daily basis. My mother-in-law gets put into the ground. And, Oswald, the love of my life, gets put into a loony bin for what _I_ did and _you_ don't think I'd be a little bummed out about it?" Sylvia said sarcastically. "I thought you were a detective, Jim. Surely, you'd have figured that one out. Surely, you would have realized that I would not be in the brightest of spirits. But hey—you assumed, and your assumptions are _always_ correct, aren't they? Good for you, Jimmy-boy. You get a gold star! La-dee-da."

"Don't give me that." Jim scolded.

"Don't give you _what_?"

"That! That tone—I can do without your snide comments."

"Well, you're not getting a sincere congrats from me—not with your crazy assumptions and that 'awesome' police work you did. What, with putting Nora in a fucking crazy house, I bet that went over well with her husband, didn't it?" Sylvia replied cattily. "Did Nora live?"

"No, she died."

" _That's_ unfortunate."

"It is."

"I'm assuming Lee knows?"

"Nora was Lee's patient."

"So Lee was with Nora when it happened?"

"Yes."

"Wow, now you can be brother-of-the-year _and_ win the father award."

"It wasn't my idea for her to go along!"

Sylvia said coldly, "Well, it wasn't exactly _my_ idea to kill Galavan, was it? You wanted to kill him—you wanted to put a fucking bullet in his face—"

"You took the gun _from_ me!" Jim retorted.

"Because I knew you wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you killed him!"

"What the hell are you _really_ pissed about?" Jim questioned. "Are you mad because Penguin is locked up because of you—or are you pissed because you didn't give me the choice to shoot Galavan?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

Jim stared at her. She stared back.

They were both slightly breathless from yelling at each other, seeing a reflection of themselves in the eyes of the other sibling. Sylvia had banked on Jim feeling regret if he had killed Galavan; she didn't think _she_ would feel regret. Killing Galavan was not the issue…the consequences of her actions led her to this point.

"Nora died in the asylum," said Sylvia quietly. "She died, didn't she?"

"Yes. She did."

"I envy that."

"What are you talking about?"

"I envy _her_." Sylvia clarified. In a whisper, she added, "It's a shame I'm not dying."

Jim glanced uncomfortably at her. The nerves in his fingers tingled, and he felt the urge to suddenly hug her, to be there for her, to tell her everything would be all right. But he knew that's not what she wanted to hear. Sylvia stared at the wedding photo.

"It hurts too much, Jimmy." Sylvia squeaked, her eyes watering. "It hurts. Too. Much."

"What does?"

"Being away from him," she answered. "Not knowing what they're doing to him. Not knowing what they're saying to Oswald—what they've _been_ saying to him. What they're saying about _me_."

"What do you mean?"

Sylvia lifted a hand to him, her finger pointing and shaking like it was taking every ounce of strength to do that simple gesture. She pointed in the direction of her vanity mirror, saying, "Left side, top drawer."

Jim furrowed his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side shortly before following her soft request. He approached the vanity, glancing at his own reflection briefly before taking the two black marble knobs of the drawer and pulling it to him slowly. He bit back a sigh of disgust when he saw the drawer contained her lingerie—mostly lace or silk—and he spotted a vanilla-colored folder; assuming that it was the object of her request, he took it and closed the drawer, walking back to the bed, once more sitting on the edge of the mattress.

"Open it." Sylvia said, shaking her head when he offered it to her.

He did as she asked.

He saw the hand-written contract, signed and dated by Oswald Cobblepot, the one requesting for her not to contact him until after he graduated his rehabilitation program.

"It's a copy. Strange gave one to me."

"What the hell is this."

"It's basically a restraining order." She muttered stoically. "He doesn't want to see me. He doesn't want…." (she sighed deeply) "to talk to me. Wants nothing to do with me. I've been cast aside, put on the back burner, left in the dark—whatever phrase best suits this whole thing."

Jim re-positioned himself on the bed, scanning the letter for any hint that it was written in general haste or under duress but all the letters were calmly set from pen to paper. He glanced at Sylvia, who gave him a subtle glance back. He might as well had been looking through a glass wall.

He placed the envelope on the stand, saying, "Vee, you need to get up. Get out of the house, take a walk."

"I don't want to…."

"I know you don't want to, but you _need_ to."

"I don't want to!" Sylvia groaned, putting her face in the pillow. "I don't want to talk anymore, Jim. Just please...please leave me the fuck alone. Please!"

"I can't."

"Why not."

"You told me you wished you were in Nora's place. That you wish you were dying. Do you know what that sounds like to me?"

"It's not the first time I've talked about it."

"And it's not the first time you were about to act on it," Jim reminded. "Remember when you thought I killed Oswald? You were on the brink of jumping off the roof of your apartment building."

"That's different." She mumbled.

"How is this any different?"

"I'll be fine, Jim. I'm in bed, not on a roof."

"Vee..."

"Just let me be, please?"

"I can't. You're saying you want to die."

"You can't blame me, can you?" Sylvia said through the muffled pillow case.

Jim sighed, and took her shoulders in his arms, pulling her up. For all her passionate responses and her insistent orders to be left alone, she barely resisted him when Jim forced her to sit up. Her head tilted into the crook of his neck as he wrapped his arms around her back.

"I miss him so much, Jim." She whispered. "Strange won't let me see him" (Her voice cracked.) "And I'm just so….so fucking tired."

"I know." Jim murmured, rubbing her back.

"I can't keep this up. I can't. I'm so tired of all these fucking meetings, people complaining, and always looking over my shoulder."

"Why are you looking over your shoulder? Who's threatening you now?"

"I feel like everyone is."

"Who in particular?"

Shaking her head, she protested, "I don't need your help, Jim. I don't need my big brother fighting my battles. Gotham is _mine_ to control."

"You said you're tired of it."

"Believe me. It's an understatement."

"Then give it to someone who wants the control," Jim offered. "I hear Tabitha Galavan and Butch Gilzean are more than—"

"Not them."

"Then who."

"Nobody."

"Vee…."

"Oswald doesn't want anything to do with me," Sylvia sniffled, brushing the hot tears from her cheeks. "My entire life is in pieces. And I'm falling apart. The empire is all I have fucking left—I can't give it up…and….and if Oswald gets out of Arkham, I want to make sure that he has something to come back to."

"From the sound of things, Strange has been working on him. I doubt he'll come out as the same person."

Sylvia said stubbornly, "If he does, I want him to see that nothing has changed."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Like I said," Sylvia said, pulling out of his embrace. "This is all I have left."

"You have me."

"That's true…I have you. I suppose I also have Ed….as a friend, mind you."

"Mm….speaking of which," said Jim calmly. "I have a few questions for you. Regarding Kristen Kringle."

"The records custodian?"

"The same."

Sylvia resigned to leaning her back against the headboard, rubbing her right shoulder where she'd been lying in bed for several hours.

"What about her?"

"She's missing."

"I thought she was with Officer Dougherty."

"That's what I thought too. Lee expressed some concern," Jim explained. "Apparently, Kristen hasn't cashed in her last few paychecks. She's worried."

"'Worried'." Sylvia repeated, like the word was new to her. Innocently, she asked, "Do you think something happened to her?"

"Probably."

"Have you talked to Ed?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He says Kristen left him a note, stating she was going down South with Dougherty," Jim continued. "The man has money, I imagine. Traveling—that sort of thing. But it's still puzzling to me as to why she hasn't cashed her checks. She'd need the money, if they're traveling. Don't you think?"

"A man who has money," said Sylvia lightly, "doesn't really let his intended buy anything. That could explain why Kristen hasn't been by to pick up her checks."

Jim considered this with a subtle nod, saying, "I'm still looking into it. If anything, just to pacify Lee. She was a little despondent last night."

"Meaning?"

Jim smiled.

"I'd normally be irked by you prying into my love life, but I'm just happy to see that you're starting to get back to your old self again."

"Don't jinx it." Sylvia chided, smiling though. "Tell me what happened with Lee."

"She thinks I'm lying to her."

"About?"

"Galavan."

"Well, you know, Jim. You kinda are."

"That's another thing."

"What?" asked Sylvia.

"Barnes talked to me."

"Not surprised. He talks a lot."

"He told me IA is reopening the Galavan case." Jim said seriously. A dark, ominous shadow overtook his eyes as he said, "It's not over."

"Someone popped a tip to Internal Affairs, huh?" She said sarcastically. "No surprise there. Gotham is full of narcs. Who says I did it?"

"That's just it. They told IA that they saw _me_ shoot Galavan."

Sylvia frowned "It's fair to say someone is framing you."

"It could be a crank call, for all we know. Wouldn't be the first time."

"Won't be the last either."

"Yeah."

"But I doubt _you_ think that, huh?"

Jim nodded.

"I think someone's trying to frame me. Yeah."

Sylvia said curiously, "Did Barnes believe it?"

"I'm not sure." Jim muttered, glancing away and looking down at the comforter. "But it's not sitting well with him. Not sitting well with me either."

"Well, regardless of the fact: we both know you didn't shoot Galavan."

"That we do."

"So don't worry about it." Sylvia offered. "Jimmy, if you start acting dodgy, people _will_ start suspecting it was you. I can get my people on it, see who might have a personal vendetta against you, see who would probably try framing you."

Jim smiled a little saying, "You're the best, Vee. I knew I could count on you."

"Mm. See, Jimmy? It pays to have your sister in the criminal world."

"That, it does." He uttered, although he had to suppress the urge to make a justifiable comment after. He kissed her cheek and said, "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Not that much better, but it's a start," Sylvia said, smiling back at him.


	9. Oswald Is Released

Chapter Nine: Oswald Is Released

Sylvia scribbled inside her black leather-bound notebook after the quarterly meeting with the Head of the Five Families. Once they'd left, she'd spoken with The Duke and, shortly after, Tommy Bones. The Commissioner wanted another meet-and-greet about renegotiating terms, but that was going to be left to Mr. Bell's unequivocal ability to dismiss him politely. How many times was the cop going to try and raise his prices?

Brittany hurried inside the Meeting Room, holding a flip phone out to her quietly. She covered the mouth piece and whispered, "It's Edward Nygma. From the GCPD."

"Give it to me." Sylvia said, gesturing her forward.

Brittany handed the phone to her; she took it, and the blonde quickly left the room, closing the double doors on her way out.

"It's me."

"Who was that woman who answered the phone?"

"One of my employees. Why?"

Ed chuckled, "She sounded sweet."

"She's off limits, Nygma. I'm kind of busy, what do you want?"

"Has Gordon come to you yet about Ms. Kringle?"

Sylvia licked her lips saying, "This is a woman you've fucked, Ed—I figured you'd start calling her 'Kristen'"—(She heard him sigh irritably.)—"But I digress. He talked to me, said there are few people who asked about Kristen's disappearance. Doesn't surprise me—your story left a lot of room for people to start poking holes."

"Did you tell him anything?"

"Nope. You're not folding under the pressure just yet, are you, Ed?"

"Of course not."

"Good."

"It does raise a certain dilemma for me, however."

"Mm-hmm. Covering your tracks, right. But you already did that, you said."

"I'm allowed a couple mistakes."

"Not when you're covering up a murder, you're not."

"You're not helping."

"I'm assuming you're calling me for a different reason?"

Ed sighed, "Did you hear about Penguin?"

"I know he's in the asylum," Sylvia reminded apathetically. "That's not news to me. Try again."

"He's not _in_ the asylum. He was released." He said slyly. "And guess where he is."

"Don't play games with me, Ed. Seriously, I have a _lot_ on my plate right now. I've just finished meeting with the Heads of all Five Families, chewed out The Duke for trying to ransack my captains at the Docks, and had a subtle—if not loud—argument with Tommy Bones about sex trades. So please, no jokes."

"This isn't a joke, Liv."

"Then wipe that smile off your face," Sylvia said, annoyed. "I can practically _hear_ it through the phone."

"I'm smiling, yes. But you must know—Penguin is here. With me."

Sylvia stood up so quickly, the chair was knocked over, and Gabe glimpsed through the double doors to make sure his boss hadn't suffered from a sudden heart attack.

"He's there with you? Right now?"

"Yes, and covered in…well, I know feathers, but I don't know what the other stuff is. Probably tar. Its chemical base is—"

"ED!"

"Sorry—uh yes, he's here. With me. Kinda freaking me out, no offense."

"What do you mean, he's freaking you out?"

"He's like super nice right now, it's really weird. So could you just please come over and…you know….get him?"

"Will do. I'm on my way."

"Thanks."

Sylvia hurriedly rushed through the living room without so much as another word to her employees before getting into her car. The Commissioner would just have to take a seat on the back burner.


	10. The Jim Gordon-Dilemma

Chapter Ten: The Jim Gordon-Dilemma

* * *

Ed was relieved when there was a knock on the door. Since he had called Sylvia to come get Penguin, Ed had been appeasing him with talk of weather and simple topics that wouldn't allow him to feel tempted to divulge all the antics he'd planned for Jim Gordon.

The bombing at the bank had only been the start of a grander plan. No doubt the medics were called after Jim threw the bomb into an office and prayed it didn't have a larger radius. That was just a matter of luck.

Ed answered the door, sliding it back and smiled when he saw Sylvia. A black pencil skirt with its hem just above her knees, black three-inch heels, and a white V-neck blouse with its sleeves folded up to her elbows, and her hair was down to her shoulders in long wavy curls.

"Liv, you look stunning," Ed commented as he stepped to the side to allow her in.

"Thanks," She returned quietly.

She twirled around just as Ed closed the door and said curtly, "Jim called me."

"Did he, now?" Ed said with an air of expectancy. "What did he have to say?"

"Some lunatic put a bomb in a locker in the bank."

"Don't tell me you're worried for the bank tellers."

"No, I'm not worried about them. I'm irritated because the bomb nearly killed my brother."

"Oh _my_ ," Ed said softly, feigning shock. "That's troubling. Is….is he alright?"

"He'll be fine. He's been involved in more life-threatening situations than this one." Sylvia said, strangely not picking up on the faux surprise, but he noticed the indifference in her voice.

Her irritability wasn't due to an innate worry for her older brother being held up in a bank and having his life being threatened by anyone. It was the simple fact that despite her own infamous reputation, someone still had the nerve to put her brother's life at risk. _That_ annoyed her, Ed guessed.

"That's comforting."

"He told me he put you in charge of Forensics," Sylvia informed, crossing her arms.

"That, he has."

"Have you found out what this bomber wants?"

"It's funny you say that. Because, boy, do I have some news for _you_!"

"About the bomber?"

Ed suppressed his delight upon revealing his brilliance to Sylvia with a mischievous, child-like smile, "Oh, yes."

"Speaking of news, before you go on, where's Oswald?"

Ed inwardly let out an exasperated sigh. He'd wanted so badly to reveal his significant plan to her that he'd forgotten the very reason she'd even visited. Of _course,_ she had only come to retrieve her reformed husband. Why would she have come just to drop by to say hello. Then again, he called her to come get him, didn't he? What else should he have expected.

In response to Sylvia's inquiry, Ed gestured towards the living room where Oswald was currently sitting on the couch, sipping from a cup of hot cocoa.

He wore the clothes he'd had on before being admitted in Arkham, but the white pillow feathers were an interesting accessory. Despite being tarred and feathered, Oswald looked unreasonably content just to sit there and keep drinking his hot chocolate.

Sylvia glanced at Ed curiously; the latter shrugged.

"He's been like that since I called you," He uttered under his breath, looking at Oswald as he spoke. "He was telling me that violence and anger aren't the answers…it's _really_ freaking me out, Liv. I let him know that you were coming to pick him up and he's been sitting there ever since."

"Did you make the hot chocolate for him?"

"After he asked, yes."

"Arkham really did a number on him, didn't they?"

"You have no idea. Start talking to him and you'll understand where I'm getting at."

Sylvia side-stepped the couch as she walked into the living room. He looked like Oswald, sounded like Oswald, but it was made very clear to her that he wasn't the same man that had been pushed into Arkham's gates. Just his mannerisms alone were different.

She approached Oswald, wondering whether he'd even remember her. He'd been in there for months. And thanks to Hugo Strange, they'd had no contact at all.

"Ozzie." Sylvia uttered gently.

Oswald turned at the sound of her voice, smiling widely when he saw her. He stood up a little too quickly, nearly spilling hot chocolate on himself. It made her smile at just how sweet and infantile he behaved, but Arkham had done more to him than that, Sylvia was certain. Whether Oswald would tell her was something entirely different.

"Hi, sweetheart." Sylvia cooed, walking to him.

As she advanced closer, Oswald looked at her like she was someone else. He didn't appear frightened or disgusted, just in awe of the woman before him.

"Sylvia?"

The name almost sounded foreign to him. It was the first time he said it since getting admitted—none of the nurses or doctors would even allow her name to leave his lips. She was the cause of his agitation, they said, the reason for his violence and homicidal tendencies.

Seeing her now, Oswald wanted nothing more than to hug her, the woman he'd fallen in love with over and over, and would inevitably fall in love with once more.

Still, seeing her now, seemed something more of a visionary than a reality. Oswald couldn't remember much of his turmoil, the angst of being separated from his true love, but he did recall a certain pain in his chest. A starving sensation that had nothing to do with hunger for food or thirst for water.

"It's me." She confirmed. "What…." (She looked him over.) "What happened to you?"

"Oh, it was just Tabitha and Butch having some fun," chuckled Oswald, gesturing to himself.

"Tabitha and Butch? They did this to you?" Sylvia asked; she touched his face where a feather was stuck on his cheek and she gently pulled it off.

"Yeah. I told Ed that they talked about killing me. It was pretty nice of them that they reconsidered."

Sylvia stared at him.

What the hell did these doctors _do_ to him? A surge of an unpleasant, sickening feeling roiled inside her belly, crawling up through her bloodstreams to her heart.

"Well, it doesn't matter what they've done." Sylvia said coolly, ignoring the boiling anger. "I think it's time you came home, don't you think?"

"Home?"

"Yes…yes, Oswald. _Home_. Back to the mansion with me."

"That would be _splendid_!" Oswald exclaimed happily. "Do you have hot chocolate there too?"

He beamed when she nodded and he quickly walked towards her, taking her hand. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, smiling just as widely.

He reminded her of a child.

"Just sit here for a moment," Sylvia offered, leading him to the couch and encouraging him to sit down. "Drink your chocolate. I'm going to talk to Ed for a few minutes, okay?"

"Of course!" Oswald enthused. "Please..."

He gestured for her to do what she needed and he sat back down, content with drinking from his mug.

Sylvia watched him curiously before striding towards Ed, grabbing his arm and pulling him down the hallway so they were out of earshot of Oswald. Ed looked reasonably disarmed, eyebrows retreating up to his forehead when Sylvia opened the bathroom door and shoved him inside. He let out a small 'unf!', having forgotten just how strong she was; he clamored back to his full height as she turned to look at him.

"Liv—"

"I'm going to _kill_ Strange!" Sylvia snarled after she'd slammed the door.

"—Liv—"

" _He's not even the same man anymore_! He's like a child—a fucking infant! He didn't even call me 'Pigeon'…."

"Ah, the pet name he has for you," Ed noted, putting one hand on his hip and the other on the wall as he leaned against it. "Well, I told you. Arkham has done a real number on him."

"You're telling _me_!" Sylvia hissed. "'Pretty nice of them'? Tabitha and Butch just humiliated him, and he's _okay_ with it! What the fuck, Ed!"

"They _were_ going to kill him. So, putting that in perspective, we should be grateful that they didn't."

"That's hardly the point!"

"Well, it's a point worth considering. So what are you going to do with him?"

"Take him home. I'm taking him home. Maybe if I can get him surrounded with what he used to know…who knows, it might just throw him of out this brainwashing mind-shaft Strange threw him in."

Ed put his hands up in surrender as soon as he spoke, just in case she didn't like what she had to hear: "You have to remember, Liv. You and Oswald haven't had any contact for months—you may have to make him remember what you guys had."

"What we still _have_ ," Sylvia corrected, giving him a cold glare. "We wouldn't have lasted nearly as long if someone as annoying as Strange was able to tear us apart."

"Well, that is something we both can agree on," Ed returned, exhaling deeply.

Sylvia sat on the toilet seat cover, brushing her fingers through her hair as she leaned over. Ed lowered his hands to his side, having the worst urge to move forward and embrace her—but he feared that might only trudge up an old argument. And so far, they were functioning just fine, even if Ed had to consistently bury his romantic feelings for her deeper and deeper each time they met.

He chose the alternative, taking a piece of toilet paper from its holder and offering it to her. Sylvia thanked him and she dabbed her eyes with it.

"I thought I'd be happy when he came out," Sylvia muttered, looking up at him with sad eyes. "But this isn't the man I married. He's too… _nice_."

"Would you rather him beat your head in?"

"You know what I mean."

"It was a poor attempt at humor, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Sylvia said, smiling at him. She stood to her feet and Ed watched her. "I best get him home."

She brushed a hand through her hair, peeked at her reflection, and then rubbed her face out of exhaustion. As she opened the door, she turned to Ed who followed her out into the hallway.

"You said you had news for me," Sylvia offered. "About the bomber at the bank today?"

"Yes…I do—well, I did," Ed said carefully.

She tilted her head to the side saying, "Well, which one is it?"

"I….I don't. No news. I just wanted to tell you that the Bomber in the bank had a—you know—had a bomb and that Jim figured it out and he put _me_ in charge of Forensics. You know, happy day!" Ed blurted, grinning oddly.

Sylvia stared at him like he'd gone mad, but his answer somehow pacified her. After all, she had other things to worry about than some mad bomber in the streets who liked to play games. Sylvia stopped by the living room and held her hand out for Oswald to take. He placed the mug on the coffee table in front of him and took her proffered hand, smiling widely.

"Thank you, old friend, for the chocolate. It was delicious," said Oswald as he and Sylvia walked out of the apartment.

"Thank you for calling me," Sylvia said to Ed, smiling gracefully before leaving with Oswald at her ankles.

"Anytime, Liv." Ed returned, nodding his head gratefully.

As he closed the apartment door, he leaned his back against it and muttered to himself. He walked into the bathroom, staring down his reflection until it somehow came apart, ripping itself from his own mirrored half and forming into the _other_ Ed.

"Bravo, Eddie," chuckled Edward; the suave man who wore no spectacles peered at him from the other side of the glass, standing on Ed's left. "You almost got her, didn't you?"

"What the hell are you talking about," Ed grumbled. "There was no 'getting'."

"You knew she'd come though, if you called her."

"Of course she would have come. She needed to get Penguin out of my place."

"Don't act stupid," chuckled the darker Edward Nygma. He grinned slyly, saying, "Oswald Cobblepot was just an excuse for her to come over. You used that card almost immediately. And don't you shake your head—we _both_ wanted her to come. It's always nice seeing an old friend, isn't it?"

"Would you stop?" Ed muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I tried doing what you said before and it caused a _mess_."

"You kissed her, sure," Edward said, unimpressed.

"No!" Ed snapped, pointing at the mirror. " _You_ kissed her! I didn't want to—I knew she didn't—"

"Of course she didn't. She doesn't want _you_ ," said Edward darkly. "She wanted _me_. If you ever realized that, we'd have her in our arms already."

"It doesn't matter what you or I want. She wants Penguin. She's already chosen him. She's married to the guy, and—pardon me—he _is_ my friend."

"Then why were you so quick to get him out of here? He's a changed man—doesn't suit _your_ appetites anymore. It's nice to know that once friends change, you're eager to dispose of them rather quickly."

"He's a changed man. For the 'better'," Ed argued.

"And his change can be _your_ change for the better," Edward drawled. "And more importantly, _mine_."

Ed glanced up at the mirror after splashing water on his face, noticing that the darker entity no longer stared back at him. Slowly, he turned to see that the darkness in its own body sat on the toilet seat cover. The more confident Edward, the suave, cool, calculating man that he was, sat with a leg crossed over his knee, smirking at him.

"You want Sylvia, don't you?" Edward questioned. He rolled his eyes, adding, "Of course you do. I know _I_ want her, so you must definitely want her too."

"We're just friends," Ed said quietly.

"Mm-hmm, we both have heard _that_ old cliché. She only chose that limping bird because she has no other choice _but_ to choose him. She's a married woman, you know."

"I know that!" Ed snapped.

"So, this is our best opportunity."

"The last time you took over, Ms. Kringle died."

"Kristen Kringle wasn't matched for us," Edward reminded. "She was too innocent, too naive, too….well, you know. But _this_ redhead is better for us, don't you think?" (Edward stood to his feet, strolling around the bathroom.) "She is fiery, opinionated, argumentative…not to mention her volatile impulses."

Ed mumbled, "I'm not listening to you."

"Oh, you're listening to me. And you know that I'm right." Edward mused. "Trust me, Eddie. She'll see that Oswald Copplepot isn't the man he used to be. Sure, she'll love him and dote on him, but eventually, that fire of hers will need to be stoked. An innocent, troubled bird is not going to have a hold on her forever, no matter how much she may love him."

Ed glared at the other Edward.

"That's right. Once she falls out of love with that pitiful excuse for 'The Penguin'," the darker Edward made a dramatic gesture, "we will swoop in as the better match. Husband or no husband."

Ed rolled his eyes, saying, "I'm not listening to you anymore. Get out of my head."

"You _want_ her. You _need_ her. Just like she needs us…or should I say…she needs _me_." Edward chuckled.

"I SAID GET OUT!" Ed shouted.

And just like that, the other Edward suddenly disappeared.

Ed looked at his reflection, relieved to see no others around him. It wasn't like he was lying to himself. Of course, he wanted Sylvia. Of course, he wanted to be with her. Anyone with a brain would. But she'd expressed herself more than once now that she would always choose Oswald Cobblepot.

But if Oswald Cobblepot was no longer himself and there was no hope of him ever changing back to his old self, would Sylvia really stay with him? Or would she stray?

Ed looked at his shaking hands. How badly they trembled.

Forget his own passive, underfed desires. He'd look to self-preservation now.

Ed had been so close to brag about how _he_ was the bomber, the man who'd nearly killed Jim Gordon. To Sylvia, of all people!

He wanted so badly to express how clever and intelligent he was for the future (and inevitably successful) framing of the great Detective James Gordon that he was about to reveal every brilliant detail to Sylvia. He wanted her to see that he was clearly meant for the business in the Underworld, how easily he could handle the misgivings and meticulous planning it took to stand by her side as her partner-in-crime.

How he wanted to tell Sylvia all of this brilliant planning. But he'd not calculated one thing.

Sylvia was—in all aspects—Jim Gordon's sister. How had he forgotten! Sylvia was so immersed in crime that Ed frequently failed to remember that she and Jim were related.

So distracted by his feelings for the redheaded Calypso that Ed had forgotten about his own self-preservation. That detective was closing in on finding Kristen's body. And if that happened, _he_ would go to prison. And Ed wasn't about to start looking over his shoulder more than he was already. As much as he cared for Sylvia—as much as he loved her—he needed to get Jim Gordon out of his hair.

He'd covered up his brilliance with an excuse, some odd explanation that would pacify Sylvia's curiosity. But Ed knew Sylvia was not completely convinced that he hadn't any more to say about the bombing in the bank. It was killing Ed not to tell her about his brilliant plans, how fastidious he was being. He _wanted_ her to know just how intelligent he was, how criminally superior he was to the rest of her goons that she surrounded herself with.

But the reality of the situation might as well had been a right hook in his gut.

If Sylvia ever found out that Ed was framing her brother for a murder he didn't even commit, any hope of a relationship—and their friendship, for that matter—was out the door.

"I can't tell her anything," Ed said with finality. "She can't know it's me."

A moment later, he glared at his reflection and mumbled, "Damn it."


	11. Oswald Is Different

Chapter Eleven: Oswald is Different

* * *

Oswald held onto Sylvia's hand as she led him through the mansion.

Mr. Bell, Dagger, Chilly, and Gabe all opened their mouths to say something about Oswald's feathered state but Sylvia held up her other hand and said curtly, "Don't ask!"

That silenced them really quick.

She opened the bathroom door which led to a large bathtub, and a stand-in shower. Wordlessly, she ran a bath, occasionally putting her hand under the faucet to make sure it wasn't scorching hot. Oswald, in the meantime, kept his hands in front of him, fidgeting with his fingers idly as he peered around at the glistening tiles and the lavender border.

"Ozzie."

Oswald looked at her, startled.

"Come here, dear." She gestured to him.

Oswald walked towards her, smiling. He watched her hands move to his clothes and slowly take them off, one piece at a time until he was naked. When he realized he was standing in his own birthday suit, Oswald blushed a bright shade of pink.

Sylvia noticed: "What's wrong?"

"I'm naked."

"I've seen you naked before, love."

"I-I know." He said with a nervous laugh of his own.

With her help, he stepped over the edge of the tub and sat down, more self-conscious than ever. The bubbles hid his other assets and it was only at this point when Oswald appeared content. A eucalyptus fragrance filled the bathroom, and he watched the bubbles pile up to his chest. He happily pulled them to his face, grinning when he made himself a bubble beard.

"What do you think?" Oswald asked, gesturing to it.

"It's very becoming of you." She snickered.

There was a knock on the door. She let out an exasperated sigh while Oswald looked at her.

"What!"

"Phone call, Lady Cobblepot!" Mr. Bell's voice called from behind the door.

"Who is it!"

"Detective Gordon!"

"Take a message! I'll call him when I get the chance."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Sylvia rolled her eyes. Oswald erased the bubble beard and scratched his head, watching her.

"Sylvia?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Are you okay?"

Sylvia met his gaze, startled by the question. She saw the puppy dog eyes, the way he waited attentively for her response.

"I'm fine, sweetheart." She consoled, smiling at him.

Oswald returned the smile blithely.

Yes, she could have told him how miserable she'd been without him. Yes, she could have expressed her hatred towards Arkham Asylum's staff and doctors at the way they've completely changed her husband. But what good would that have done?

He seemed happy enough.

But there was a missing link.

Sylvia could tell that he still loved her, the glow of his face when he saw her, that sweet way he smiled at her when they were both quiet. He was still very much in love with her, but Sylvia felt a disconnection between them.

His shyness for when he realized he was naked while she was still fully dressed; the nervous but ever so curious way he'd looked around at her staff as she pulled him through the mansion; Oswald telling Ed Nygma that violence and anger were not the answers to life's bountiful problems….they were signs of his submission—submission to not just her more assertive, strong will but to the affliction Strange had put on him.

There wasn't any question that Arkham had taken away a vital part of Oswald Cobblepot. He'd always been a true gentleman, always having looked ahead in the future for his and Sylvia's betterment, but what had sealed their marriage and their love was that Oswald had a darkness like hers.

Thanks to Arkham and Hugo Strange, his darkness was now misplaced.

But he seemed content enough. And that was all that mattered, wasn't it?

"Sylvia."

She looked at Oswald when he said her name.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Could you get my back?" He asked modestly. "I can't reach…."

She nodded and moved behind him, taking the washcloth out of his hand and gripping it in her palm. He leaned forward and she gently rubbed his back with the soapy cloth. He let out a sigh of content.

"Oswald."

"Hmm?"

"How come you signed an order that forbade me to see you while you were in Arkham?"

"Hugo told me that…." He paused, thinking for a moment. "You know what. It's the oddest thing. I can't remember why I signed it."

"I'm not going to be mad if you tell me."

Oswald turned in the tub, looking at her.

"I suppose—in some ways—Hugo convinced me that in order to get better, I'd have to do it on my own."

Sylvia placed the rag on the edge of the tub, looking indignant.

"You didn't have to do it alone. I'd have been there with you every step of the way."

"I suppose I knew that on some level."

"Did Hugo Strange tell you that I was the reason for why you were admitted?"

Oswald looked horrified: "No, no! Of course not! Why would you even think such a thing!"

"You signed a _restraining_ order. You granted them permission to restrict our communication to barely nothing. They wouldn't let me visit you, call you—I could only send written communication. I sent you _letters_ , Oz."

He blinked.

"You sent me letters?"

"Yes…I did. At least fifty."

"I never received anything," Oswald uttered curiously. "Did you ever get mine?"

"You sent...?" Sylvia gasped.

Oswald nodded fervently.

"Yeah. I sent one a week."

"I never received any."

"That's strange," Oswald mumbled. Then, with an air of amusement, "Mail in Gotham is never easy, is it? Too bad there's never a simple explanation for these kinds of mishaps."

Sylvia inwardly hissed as he sat back in the tub, "Ohh, I'm sure there _is_ a simple explanation."

Oswald peered over his shoulder at her, uncertain of her meaning but seeing as she didn't elaborate, he shrugged and went back to playing with his bubbles. Sylvia dipped her hands in the water, warming her fingertips as she rubbed them over his shoulder blades, down his back and over his spine.

Strange had every intention, it seemed, to sabotage her marriage. _Sure_ , he'd allowed them to send letters to each other but what had been the point of that if Strange was withholding them? It seemed that at some point, Oswald had been convinced he'd be doing this alone since Sylvia never sent him any written communication—unknown to either of them that Strange was actually taking said letters and disposing of them…Before he'd ever signed a restraining order.

Oswald sat with his back against the tub, leaning his head against her shoulder; she ran her hand slowly through his hair, smiling when she saw how content he appeared. When she looked down and saw him looking at her, she chuckled.

"What are you looking at?"

"You." Oswald answered seriously. "I missed you. While I was away, I thought about you."

"Did you, now?" She said coyly. "What thoughts did you have about me?"

Her hands moved from his lower back to his chest, linking together by the wrists—she'd long forgotten about the worry for her shirt getting wet. Just having him in the same room with her was enough to make her happy.

Oswald placed his palms over the back of her hands, smiling up at her. He didn't answer her. Instead, he looked at her like she might fly up a chimney.

"You're an angry woman," He noted out of the blue, startling her.

"Not all the time."

"You were angry when I left, weren't you?"

"You were admitted to an asylum, sweetheart. For something _I_ did."

"You're angry about _that_ , aren't you?" Oswald said knowingly.

"Why do you want to discuss this?"

"Hugo says that you have a lot of healing to do yourself. That you have a lot of anger. Towards a lot of people."

"What does that idiot know about me?"

"You've done some bad things. Like me." He told her quietly. "You've killed people because of me."

"It was business, Oz."

"Bad business."

"But _business_ ," Sylvia emphasized, "none the less."

"I have a lot of regret," Oswald murmured.

"For what?"

"For getting you involved in it."

"I was involved in it long before you were." She said defensively. "And long before I met you. None of what I've done has anything directly to do with you. Consider yourself absolved, love."

Oswald turned in the tub, facing her. Sylvia looked at him, a little puzzled by his behavior.

"Do you still love me?" He asked.

"Of course, I do."

"I still love you."

"Good to know."

"But things will have to change. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I don't pretend to know what all you've done since I was being rehabilitated, but I can tell that it's nothing good. I can tell that you're angry, but you have to let that anger go."

"Wait…." Sylvia uttered, standing. "Let me make sure I know what you're saying before you expand on that idea…."

Oswald nodded for her to continue.

"You're telling me you _don't_ want me to run this empire," She said softly. "You're telling me you've changed for the best, and you want _me_ to change as well. You want to forget all of this" (she gestured to the mansion in general) "everything you and I have built based on what Hugo Strange told you?"

Oswald said lightly, "I can see why you would be reluctant."

"I'm _very_ reluctant."

Oswald stood out of the tub, and she handed him a towel to dry himself. As he did, she handed him the suit she had steamed and pressed. He happily took it and started to dress. Once he'd pulled over his shirt and waist coast, he was in the process of buttoning his pants while she slipped a tie around his neck, folding it in place.

"I can understand why we don't see eye-to-eye," Oswald said gently, watching her tighten the tie in place.

"You can, can you?" Sylvia muttered.

On any day, that might have elicited a snide comment from Oswald but now, he appeared content with just their conversation.

"We will be fine, you and me," He promised.

"Will we?"

"Love conquers all," He said happily. "I suppose it might be too premature to ask, but I've been thinking of what we could do for our anniversary. Renewal of wedding vows sounds romantic, don't you think?"

Sylvia smiled endearingly, "That sounds like a beautiful idea."

He beamed at her approval.

"Will you think about what I've said?" Oswald asked.

"About changing for the better?" Sylvia returned. "Sure. I'll think about it."

They were on their way out when Gabe stopped Sylvia. Oswald looked worried that something bad might have happened since the last phone call but Sylvia looked more or less indifferent as Gabe leaned into her and whispered in her ear. Sylvia shook her head, and whispered something back. In the meantime, Oswald appeared satiated by curiosity as Sylvia loomed her arm through his.

"How about we visit your mother?" Sylvia offered.

"That's a good idea." Oswald returned.

Gabe looked expectantly at Sylvia, who shook her head. It was a response to an earlier inquiry apparently as Gabe nodded respectfully then began calling another individual with a message.

* * *

Sylvia pulled out an umbrella as the rain started to fall. She held it in one hand while the other held Oswald's arm. Together they strolled through the cemetery while Sylvia directed accordingly until they stopped at the headstone where Gertrud lain. It was amidst lush green grass, situated under what would have been a full weeping willow tree; due to the change of season, the said tree was all bear with large, thick branches slowly rustling against the adamant breeze.

While Oswald was dressed in a finer suit than the clothes Sylvia found him in, she wore a knee-high dress, with matching black flats. For Oswald's appeal, her hair was twisted in a braid which fell over one shoulder; on the other shoulder, the strap of her purse crossed over her body.

As they came to the headstone, Oswald smiled at her: "What a lovely spot."

"Yes. I figured once the leaves grow back, it'll provide just the right amount of sunshine and shade that she would have wanted."

"How was the funeral?"

"Simple. I put her in an oak casket. Her tastes were expensive. I figured the box should fit the woman."

Oswald laughed, "I'm sure she appreciated that."

A moment of silence weighed in while Oswald spoke to Gertrud. Sylvia kept the umbrella between them, offering dryness where it was allowed; despite the rain being abetted, Oswald's face was fairly wet, particularly his cheeks where tears were streaming.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be there for the funeral," Oswald said quietly. "You'd be pleased to know that I've changed. I'm a better man…or trying to be. And Sylvia is trying to be better too."

Sylvia sighed, looking anywhere but at the grave. The woman couldn't hear anything Oswald was saying but if she could, Sylvia hoped that Gertrud couldn't see the skepticism on her face. Oswald wanted Sylvia to be a good person, to be the same type of person that Hugo Strange had brainwashed him to be…but the odds of that happening were fairly slim.

She wondered when the knowledge of this would dawn on him, and if so, would he still want her around? She was proving to be a constant reminder of his ugly past, of crime and extortion. Sylvia could tell; every now and then, she'd catch him watching her, wondering perhaps how he was able to commit all those crimes in the past—with her, for her… _because_ of her.

Oswald placed a single lily on the grave, smiling at Sylvia as he straightened. He'd noticed that there were remnants of the same flowers where she had visited.

"Did you tell her I was thinking about her?"

"I did." Sylvia reassured. "I'm sure there isn't a moment when she's not thinking of you."

"I'd like to think so."

" _Excuse me…."_

Sylvia and Oswald lifted their gaze and turned towards the sound of another's voice. It was an older man wearing a raincoat over a fine suit; in one hand was an umbrella, in the other was a bouquet of lilies. He approached with a friendly smile.

"I'm terribly sorry; I don't mean to interrupt."

"Not at all," Oswald said, wiping his tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He noticed the bouquet: "Oh! Lilies!"

"Her favorite, if my memory serves."

"Yes, they were. Did you know her?"

"A long time ago. I found her only in death, I'm afraid." The man held out his hand, saying, "I'm Elijah Van Dahl."

"Oh, Oswald Cobblepot." Oswald greeted politely, taking his hand and shaking it.

And then the look of puzzlement spread across Elijah's face as he said, "'Cobblepot'? You're related to Gertrud?"

"Yes, my mother."

Troubled, Elijah said, "'Mother'? You're Gertrud's son?"

"Yes," Oswald answered, appearing troubled too. "I'm sorry, how did you know—"

"—How old are you?"

"Excuse me?"

"How _old_ are you?"

"I'm thirty-one—"

"—Thirty-one, yes…." Elijah said, glancing at Gertrud's grave, then back at Oswald, saying, "Oh my word, she never told me!"

"Never told you what?"

"That I had a son!" Elijah gasped, looking at Oswald like he was a figment of his imagination.

Oswald mirrored him in surprise.

Meanwhile, Sylvia had watched the scene fold out before her like a tennis match, glancing between the two men with idle fascination. She leaned into Oswald and said quietly, "Sweetie, is there something you haven't told me about your family tree?"

He startled, having nearly forgotten that she was still there. Elijah seemed to realize she was there too, since his shocked expression suddenly turned to her.

"Are you Gertrud's...?"

"Oh my, no," Sylvia chuckled. "I'm not his sister. I'm his wife." (She held out her hand.) "My name is Sylvia."

"Sylvia…." Elijah repeated. He took her hand and shook it.

"So, this has been fun, huh?" Sylvia mused.

There was a ringing in her purse, and she apologetically excused herself, taking out her phone. When she saw that it was Gabe calling, she leaned into Oswald, muttering, "Give me a moment, would you, darling?"

Oswald nodded, and Elijah watched her curiously as she strode away, answering the phone curtly: "What is it, Gabriel! I'm kind of in the middle of something here!"

Elijah turned back to Oswald who returned a smile.

"How long have you two been together?" Elijah asked.

"Three years," Oswald answered, shrugging. "Give or take a few months."

"She seems like a pleasant woman."

From the sidelines, they could hear Sylvia shouting, "I told those two motherfuckers to _guard_ the club, not get rip-roaring drunk! No, I already told the Commissioner that we are _not_ changing prices. If he wants to negotiate, he's going negotiate with my heel up his fucking ass! You can tell him _that."_

Oswald looked back at Elijah, clearing his throat: "She's having a bad day."

"I'd say so." Elijah raised his eyebrows at the cattiness of the woman before him. "What does she do?"

"She's a club owner," Oswald answered honestly.

Sylvia's voice rang, "If they want to contest me, Gabe, _let them_! I'm already pissed off about what they've done to my husband—No! No, no, no! What? _They tried to do_ what! You know what, I'll tell them myself! Keep them there, keep them inside the mansion, I will deal with them myself!"

She hung up on Gabe and she strode back to where Elijah and Oswald were standing, watching her. Sylvia put her hand on Oswald's shoulder.

"Ozzie, honey, I have to go back to the mansion," Sylvia told him, wearing a tight smile.

"Work called?" Elijah offered curiously.

"You have _no_ idea, Mr. Van Dahl. It was great meeting you." Sylvia said, taking his hand and shaking it. "Oswald, do you want to come back with me or spend some time with your father?"

Oswald looked a bit confused so Elijah said, "I would love having him over for dinner. It'll give us time to get to know each other."

"Fantastic," Sylvia said, smiling at them.

"Sylvia…." Oswald began.

She looked at him.

"Don't do anything rash, okay?" He uttered.

"Don't worry, baby. I know what I'm doing by now."

Oswald kissed her cheek. She returned it, watching Oswald walk with Elijah back to his father's car. Sylvia watched after them with a placated smile before taking out her phone once more and calling Gabe, who answered on the second ring.

"Are they still there?"

"Who?" Gabe asked.

"Tabitha and Butch."

"Yeah, they're still here."

"Good. Keep them there."

"You don't want us to torture them a little bit?"

"It's because of Oswald that I'm not doing anything just yet. Just make sure they don't leave."

"Will do. Should I get Dagger and Chilly back to the house then?"

"They're already drunk—not exactly much help," She growled. "They know better than to drink themselves under the table."

"So, are we going to continue business or are we going to the club?"

"We'll do business at the mansion."

"What about Penguin?"

"He's staying at a friend's house for now," Sylvia said dismissively.

"So, you _want_ the business to be done at the mansion."

"YES, GABE! YES! What's so fucking hard to understand about that?"

"Well, what with Penguin acting weird, I didn't know if you wanted him to see all the stuff we're doing," said Gabe coolly.

"Well, Penguin isn't going to be there. _I_ will be. So, it'll be business as usual."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"I'll see you soon." Sylvia said, and she hung up.


	12. The Truth Won't Set Jim Free

Chapter Twelve: The Truth Won't Set Jim Free

* * *

Tabitha and Butch sat frigidly in two chairs beside each other. Mr. Bell stood in front of them, a handgun held firmly in his hand while the barrel was aimed at either of them. Brittany and Delilah were in the Meeting Room as well; neither of them were armed, their icy stares could have killed. Gabe held a phone in his hand, waiting for the call; instead, the doors opened and everyone turned to see Sylvia walk through them.

She handed the umbrella to Gabe wordlessly and then sat on her throne.

"Everyone, get out," Sylvia ordered. "Everyone except you two." She pointed to Butch and Tabitha.

Not daring to argue with her, Mr. Bell cleared his throat, holding up his weapon to prove a point and then followed everyone else out of the room, closing the doors on his way out.

"So…." Sylvia sighed deeply, holding out her hands lazily. "Here we are."

"Sylvia…." Butch began.

"I could have killed both of you. Between _you_ stabbing my mother-in-law in the back, and _you_ going along with whatever this bitch wants." Sylvia eyed Tabitha and Butch respectively. "I'm in my own right to kill both of you. On my way here, I even considered doing it the moment I walked into this room, but you know what? I'm not."

"Why?" Butch asked.

"That's funny. The reason 'why' is the same reason we are here."

"Because of what we did to Penguin?" Tabitha voiced.

"Oh, look at that. Little Tabby cat knows a thing or two." Sylvia mocked, standing. "Yes. That's exactly why you're here. But there's another reason. You tried to go _behind my back_ , tried to clear out my people, try to ransack _my_ home—"

"—This was Falcone's territory before you—" Butch began.

"—And try to kill _my_ girls," Sylvia continued harshly, "all the while I am visiting my mother-in-law's grave. Now if that's not cowardly, I don't know what is! Luckily, I always keep a few men here just in any case someone tries to take advantage of Delilah and Brittany's kindness, namely you two."

Tabitha stood up furiously, but Sylvia reached under the table and pulled out a Glock, cocking back the hammer. Butch worriedly glanced between the two women, and silently urged for his girlfriend to sit back down. Reluctantly, Tabitha did with a huff.

"I've been very patient up until this point. I'd like to think so anyway," Sylvia said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I've been reasonable, even. But you children make it _so_ hard. You disrespect my authority. You overlook my agreed terms, and then—just when I thought you could not sink any lower—you humiliate my husband with your childish antics, and then, _then_ , you come busting in here, threatening the lives of my staff. And what's insulting is that you didn't expect me to find out! How stupid _are_ you!"

"What do you expect? You gave us _nothing_ ," Tabitha seethed. "You were not being fair—not even after we let your pathetic bird friend live. What're you going to do to us? Kill us?"

"Nope," sighed Sylvia, sitting on the edge of the table. She pointed the gun at Tabitha, adding, "I'm thinking of only killing _one_ of you."

Tabitha and Butch's face suddenly became full of dread. That slight reaction made Sylvia grin broadly.

"Personally, I'd let Butch go free before I let any bitch like you live, but I'm prepared to exercise some self-control and let diplomacy prevail. I'm going to let you all choose."

"Sylvia, please…." Butch said quietly. "You don't know what—"

"I don't know what it's like? Is that you were gonna say? That I don't know what it's like to be separated from the love of my life? Come on, Butch. You know that doesn't work on me. God knows I've already been through it. First, Oswald was dead, then he was alive, then he was put in a loony bin for months."

"He was released."

"Yeah, as fun as _that_ has been, I don't even know who he is anymore."

"What if we could help?" Butch offered. "Would that make up for—"

"Shut up!" Tabitha snapped. "There is no way I'm doing anything for her!"

"Either we do or you're dead, Tabby."

They started to quibble further until Sylvia aimed the gun at the ceiling and shot off two rounds. Butch and Tabitha startled, looking at her.

"You can't _change_ him back to the man he used to be," Sylvia snarled at Butch. "Hugo Strange got into his head—and, hello—they don't exactly make this shit irreversible either. Something traumatic needs to happen, and I'm not about to let either of you do _anything_ to him! So, helping _me_ is off the table, although I do appreciate the sentiment, Butchy."

She hopped off the table.

Butch murmured, "Sylvia…I know you are angry right now, but you have to listen to me…."

"Fine."

"What?"

"I'm listening to you. Talk. Give me one damn good reason why I should let you two rascals live," Sylvia said sternly. "After all, you've done so much for me already!"

Butch held his hands up in surrender.

"We used to be friends, at one point," He reminded. "You used to confide in me."

"Yep, and then you got your mind all fixed up by this lovely, charming woman," Sylvia said ironically, gesticulating to Tabitha. "There was the end of _that_ friendship. Not to mention, Oz cut off your fucking hand _and—_ allegedly—killed Galavan. If anything, I would imagine you all would want to kill me. So why on earth should I trust that we could still work something out."

"Because despite all of that, I still care for you," said Butch lightly.

Tabitha looked appalled by the sentiment but Sylvia watched him with a dangerous gaze.

He continued to speak: "I know there's nothing you wouldn't do for Penguin—you've made that very, _very_ clear to us, but what if we promised we wouldn't do this again? What if we promised?"

"Either a foolish or stupid person would believe that. The funny thing is that I trust _you_ not to go behind my back," Sylvia said as she pointed at Tabitha with the barrel of her gun: "Her, not so much."

"Her life depends on it." Butch persuaded. " _My_ life depends on it too. We promise, Sylvia. We won't do anything like this ever again. I _swear_."

Sylvia looked at Butch for a moment, waiting for his words to slip or his expression to give away the slightest hint of deceit. But he seemed sincere enough. Tabitha, although reluctant to go along with his statement, seemed to be convinced that her boyfriend's and her life seemed more important than a silly empire. Even if it meant having to work under someone as tyrannical as Sylvia.

"Let's be clear. If you ever—and I do mean _ever—_ dare to contest me again, I won't be as forgiving."

"Yes, ma'am." Butch said, nodding his head vigorously.

"Don't make a fool out of me. I swear to god, Butch, I've been more lenient with you than with my own men."

"I understand."

"Good. What about you?" Sylvia asked as she turned to Tabitha who glared daggers at her. "Do _you_ understand?"

Tabitha made a hissing sound. So, Sylvia placed the gun to her throat; immediately, the woman struggled to give out another threatening retort but then, she became meek and submissive. That feeling made Sylvia feel pretty damn good about herself.

"Say that you understand."

"I…." Tabitha found her voice and managed through gritted teeth, "I understand."

"Good. Now get the fuck out before I change my mind."

Butch grabbed Tabitha's arm, pulling her out of the doorway.

Sylvia rubbed her head with the tips of her fingers, sitting on her throne. If only she knew then what she knew now about the headaches involved in ruling an empire, she'd have helped Falcone stay in business. By now, it was getting dark, and she looked outside to see that it had stopped raining.

The growing ominous feeling in her stomach hadn't left just yet. Something bad was on the horizon. And it wasn't until her phone had started ringing when the urge to run had finally started setting in. Picking up her phone, Sylvia tiredly placed it to her ear.

"Yeah?"

"Vee..."

"Jim?" She gasped, sitting up. She glanced at the Caller ID; it was unknown. "Jim, why are you calling me from a tollfree number?"

"I'm in jail."

"Jail? _Why_?"

"Pinkney."

"Pinkney— _what_?"

"I was set up," Jim said quickly. "I was—"

"—Set up, Jim, what—"

"Vee, they're only giving me two minutes to talk, so please, just let me talk, okay?"

"Ok…."

"The bomb at the bank, I used a crowbar to open the safe. The crowbar had my fingerprints on it. Earlier today, Harvey called, said that the bomb was activated remotely by phone. The call that detonated the phone came from a pay phone at Pinkney's apartment. When I went to investigate, Pinkney was dead—the crowbar was used to kill him. Barnes found me, said that IA's witness was Pinkney—"

"Jim, you didn't kill Galavan, _I_ did! How can they prove that you did something if you didn't even do it!"

"I don't know, Vee. But there's enough evidence stacked against me—it's enough to put me away for forty years. They've arrested me, booked me—"

"—Barnes can—"

"—He doesn't believe me!" Jim said desperately. "They're putting me in Black Gate, Vee! You know I didn't do it—"

"Jim, you can't go out like this! I'll go—I'll go and turn myself in. You can't go to jail for what _I_ did!"

"No, Vee. Don't turn yourself in! Stay where you're at, do _not_ turn yourself in!"

"Enough people have already sacrificed enough on my behalf!" Sylvia snapped, smacking her hand on the table. "I can't allow you to do this!"

"You have no choice."

"Oh, I do! I'll go there—I'm leaving now—"

"Vee! _Vee_!"

Sylvia hung up and started towards the door. Gabe was sitting on the couch and as Sylvia rushed by him, he stood and asked, "What's going on, Liv?"

"Jim's in trouble—I'll be right back!" Sylvia called.

* * *

Sylvia burst through the GCPD station.

Barnes, Harvey Bullock, and Ed Nygma, amongst many other officers, looked at her in surprise.

"Arrest me!" Sylvia shouted, advancing towards Barnes, who stared at her like she'd gone mad.

"For what?" Barnes questioned.

"I murdered Theo Galavan," Sylvia admitted loudly. "Oswald beat the shit out of him and I put a bullet in his head. I shot him at the pier, dumped him in the river. Jim didn't do anything, Captain. _I did_!"

"You're confessing to a murder with an already known culprit, Mrs. Cobblepot," Barnes said indignantly.

"I said 'arrest me', goddamnit!" Sylvia snapped. She grabbed Harvey's handcuffs from the inside of his jacket; Harvey stumbled back with shock while Barnes pulled out his own gun, aiming it at her.

"Now, see here, Cobblepot—you best calm the hell down!" He ordered. "You're upset, I get it—we all are—but you can't just come in and start grabbing things off of my officers!"

"Captain, put down the gun," Harvey warned. "It'll be easier if we—"

"Don't you fucking understand a word I just said!" Sylvia shouted. "Jim didn't kill Galavan. _I_ did."

"The evidence says otherwise."

"It was planted on him, Captain!" Harvey said, siding with Sylvia. "You _know_ he didn't kill Galavan."

"I know that Jim was at Pinkney's apartment," Barnes growled. "I know Officer Pinkney had a lot to discuss about Jim and _just_ when things were about to be brought to light, the same officer is dead with Jim standing over him. Tell me what I don't understand!"

"You're a fucking moron!" Sylvia snapped, pointing at him. " _I_ killed Galavan. _I_ fucking killed him, shot him more than once. There was a fucking umbrella shoved in his mouth. I know the details of the murder—tell me how I am not the fucking culprit!"

"I have fingerprints! I have fingerprints, a witness that says _Jim_ killed Galavan. You weren't involved, remember?"

"He lied for me," Sylvia responded heatedly. "All of them did—Jim, Oswald—I deserve to be put in prison! It's like you're trying to ignore the obvious! Now fucking _arrest_ me, goddamn it! or I will give you a fucking reason to arrest—"

"—YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN—"

"—I AM _FUCKING_ CALM! DO YOUR FUCKING JOB AND ARREST ME! —"

"—You need to step back! —"

"—Liv—"

"—Stay out of this, Harvey!"

"I SAID STEP BACK!" Barnes shouted, confronting Sylvia. He took a breather when his face started turning beat red.

Sylvia looked at him, ready to brawl.

Barnes looked at her, shaking his head, saying, "I wish the circumstances were different, Mrs. Cobblepot. God, I wish they were. But the evidence all points to Jim Gordon killing Galavan _and_ Officer Pinkney. We have the eye witness, who is dead, and Jim's fingerprints are all over the murder weapon."

"What about the report," Harvey reminded. "I called in the report—that's why Jim went to the apartment…."

"There's no evidence of that report," Barnes said breathlessly, leaning his body against a desk. "I don't have anything else to go on."

"Captain," Sylvia said, her voice broke. "Listen to me. _Please_. I'm telling you; I'm _begging_ you—please listen to me! Jim is innocent. He didn't kill anyone—not Galavan, not Pinkney—"

Barnes shook his head, saying, "I can't do anything else at this point, Sylvia. My hands are tied. Now…." (He took a deep breath.) "If I were you, I'd visit your brother while you still can. He's still in the holding cell down in IA…before they ship him off to Black Gate."

Sylvia looked at him, like she'd just been slapped with a book. As Barnes walked off, Harvey looked at her imploringly. But there was nothing he could say.

Ed Nygma, on the other hand, looked torn between feeling pretty damn proud of himself…. but also wishing he could take back everything he did. After all, it was he who had made Sylvia bring herself to this point. But not even an open confession had done what she wanted; that's how well Ed had planted all the evidence against Jim Gordon.

Sylvia watched Harvey and Barnes leave her side, and she looked beside herself.

The constant invasion of her empire, the lost connection between her and Oswald, and the piled evidence used against Jim to suggest that he was responsible for Galavan's murder despite Sylvia's open confession—it was as though her life was crumbling apart all over again.

Angry that Barnes did not believe in Jim enough to see reason, Sylvia left the station in a huff and headed towards Internal Affairs where Jim was being held for transport. She stormed inside, telling the guards to fuck off, before entering the little room where, currently, Lee was standing in front of the bars. Jim was standing on the other side of them; they were holding hands.

"We move on," Jim said quietly.

"Move on to _what_?" Lee whispered. Sudden realization hit her. "You mean me…. _I_ move on."

"I've thought long and hard about this."

"No!" Lee protested.

"You have to listen to me—"

" _I'm tired of listening_!" She responded. "This isn't fair! How can you not be with us?" (She took Jim's hand in hers, placing it over their unborn child.) "Birthdays, first words, first steps….and skinned knees. Everything."

Sylvia stayed back, looking anywhere but at Lee. Lee didn't even notice that she was there. Jim glanced at Sylvia before returning his gaze to Lee. The woman was in tears.

"What, visits through bars," Lee sobbed. "And n-not knowing when the phone will ring in the middle of the night to tell me when you—"

"I don't want any of that for either of you!" Jim said wistfully. "You still have a chance at happiness."

"No!"

"You need to go somewhere. Far from here. A place somewhere fit to raise our child. Forget I exist."

"I can't," Lee whispered. "I can't."

"You _have_ to."

Sylvia started forward, and Lee looked at her—perhaps not with shock, but with something else. Of course, she'd learn that her brother was being lugged to Black Gate; she had eyes everywhere. Seeing that Jim wasn't going to let up, Lee pressed her lips tightly together and cried, leaving the room, closing the door. By the sound of it, she was leaned against it, her back to them.

"Vee…." Jim said painfully. "I told you not to come."

"And _I_ said I was coming," Sylvia reminded stoically. She reached through the bars, and Jim took her hand in his, placing it over his chest.

"How's Oswald?"

"He's different. A lot different." She looked up at the bars saying, "I didn't think you'd ever be in _this_ situation."

"I didn't kill Pinkney—"

"I know you didn't," Sylvia said quickly. "I _know_ you didn't. I even told Barnes."

"And?"

"What do you think? He didn't believe me. Not even when I confessed to killing Galavan."

"You did _what_?"

"Oh, come on, Jim, you can't expect me to see both men in my life go to some cell for what _I_ did," Sylvia said, unable to hide the tears that started rolling down her cheeks. "It's bad enough they warped Oswald's mind in there—now _you_? You and Oswald are my only family…."

"Oswald's free."

"Physically, he is," Sylvia said sadly. "But the man I fell in love with is not the same man that came out of that asylum."

"So, we're all screwed, then."

"Pretty much."

One of the officers on Jim's side started forward, getting ready to move him. Sylvia looked at them coolly then to Jim.

"Make sure Lee's taken care of. Make sure she's safe." Jim told her.

"I will. You can count of me," Sylvia returned, giving him a small salute of her hand. "Bye, Jimmy."

"See you later, Vee."

Sylvia watched the officers take Jim away and out of the doors. She waited until the door completely closed then placed her head against the bars, closing her eyes. She drew in a long breath before exhaling deeply, then held her head high and walked out of the room. Lee was sitting on the ground, her knees pulled into her as she wept.

"Come on, girl..." Sylvia sighed, taking Lee's arm. "Let's get you home."


	13. The Break Up

Chapter Thirteen: The Break Up

Author's Note: Thank you all for your lovely reviews. I enjoy reading what you think! XD

* * *

Oswald was introduced to his father's other family: his wife, Grace, and her two children, Charles and Sasha. They did more than enough to welcome him to their home, a mansion that resided far from Gotham's boundaries, for which he was grateful.

"Will your wife be over soon?" Elijah asked as they all sat down for dinner; Helga, the keeper and cook, was just about to serve them.

"To my knowledge, she will be. She's been busy with the club."

"Where is this club?" Grace asked, placing the sherry drink to her lips.

"It's in Gotham." Elijah spoke on Oswald's behalf. "You've not met her, my dear. She's a taste of fire, isn't she, my boy?"

Oswald nodded, sharing a small laugh with Elijah. While it was true, however, Oswald couldn't help but feel a slight disconnection with Sylvia. He wasn't the only one that felt it, surely—while Sylvia looked at him in a way she always did, he felt withdrawn.

Anytime he saw her, he was reminded of what he'd done to other people: manipulated, lied…. killed. It wouldn't erase the way he felt about her—he knew he loved her. Just seeing Sylvia after having been away from her for months had his heart beating frantically against his ribs...her smile alone….

"How did you two meet?" Oswald asked, hoping to distract himself from his oppressive feelings regarding his marriage; Elijah and Grace looked at each other, both of whom seemed to blush for different reasons.

"Oh, that old story," Grace dismissed with an attempt to push the conversation towards something else.

Evidently, Elijah didn't get the hint because he began to revel in the story of just how Grace came to be in his mansion. First a consistent trip to the diner, and Grace to be his waitress each and every time. A suggestion that Grace and her family seek refuge at his home, away from an alleged abusive father….and a love that blossomed over time.

It was a beautiful love story. Oswald noticed that Grace looked a little ashamed, being mentioned as a waitress seemed to damage some self-esteem of hers, but she didn't speak a word of reproach.

"How did _you_ and…." Grace looked at Elijah for the cue.

"...Sylvia..."

"Ah, yes… _Sylvia_. How did you and your intended meet?" She asked, smiling politely.

Sasha and Charles glanced ironically at one another, but Oswald didn't notice. Just as he began to speak, there was a sound of a door closing.

"Mm," Grace hummed. "Speak of the devil and she shall appear."

Oswald and Elijah chuckled at that.

Sylvia came into the room, placing her purse on the floor. She wore a dark red, off-the-shoulder blouse, and a black, flowing skirt that cut off at mid-calf. The heels of her boots clicked against the linoleum, alerting all to her presence. When she entered, Elijah, Charles, and Oswald stood, smiling at her.

She noticed and smiled back at them.

"Fashionably late, my dear," Elijah greeted, smiling. "I hope things worked out for themselves at your club."

"A few belligerent guests," Sylvia returned politely. "Nothing I can't handle."

She approached the table, sliding beside Oswald who looked at her with a little smile of his own. Grace observed Sylvia in a way like the latter was a bug that needed to be squashed. Compared to the rest of them, she appeared out of place.

Sylvia placed her hand on the table, palm up; Oswald took it, holding her hand on the surface.

"What kind of club do you run in Gotham?" Sasha asked.

"A good one," Sylvia returned vaguely.

"You mentioned something had to be worked out," said Charles, looking at her curiously. "What happened?"

"Just people trying to take over management. A few of them needed their priorities sorted out, so I helped." She gave Charles a glance: "Who are you again?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Elijah said with a sly grin. "Sylvia, you've not met them. This is my step son and daughter—Charles and Sasha." He gestured to each person respectively. "And this is my wife, Grace."

Sylvia glanced over each of them and said flatly, "Charmed."

Oswald leaned into her and whispered, "Sylvia, be nice."

"I _am_ being nice. I said I was charmed."

"Where did you say you worked again?" Grace asked skeptically.

Sylvia sent her a look conveying annoyance. Already, these people were starting to burrow beneath her skin.

Apparently, Elijah sensed this tension for he said loudly, "I doubt Mrs. Cobblepot wants to talk about work; perhaps, we should discuss something else?"

"Yes." Sylvia said with a sarcastic smile, staring down Grace. " _We should._ "

Charles said with a mouth full of food: "I saw a ghost once."

And suddenly, that sparked a full table of discussion. Oswald side-glanced at Sylvia, who returned the look reproachfully.

"There was a pale old woman in a long black dress," Charles was saying, taking Oswald's attention from Sylvia to him. "It was creepy, man. And she stood this close!"

"What did you do?" Oswald asked.

"What else could I do? I ran, of course!" Charles laughed, earning a titter around the table.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Oswald?" Grace asked.

He replied, "Yes. I do."

"What about you, Sylvia?" Charles asked, looking at her.

"It depends."

"On?"

"Whether or not I killed them."

Only Elijah and Charles chuckled at that. Oswald looked horrified, while Sasha and Grace appeared uncomfortable. Elijah cleared his throat and said calmly, "Well, you'd be interested to know—the both of you—that we have plenty of ghosts in here. Several of them. But don't worry; they're all quite friendly."

"Don't listen to him!" Grace chortled, playfully nudging Elijah. "There are no ghosts here."

"Oh, there are ghosts here," Elijah said good-naturedly. "Lots of ghosts. This house was built my grandfather. He died here; his wife and his sister all passed away upstairs. And my poor dear parents. Yes…. many ghosts."

Sylvia teased, "Well, it must be quite the family reunion when Halloween comes around."

Elijah was amused, giving out a generous laugh while the others, including Oswald, still looked uncomfortable.

"Most of my family died in this house. The fact of it all, Oswald: you are—literally—my only real blood relative."

Oswald and Elijah shared a father-son moment. Sylvia on the other hand noticed that Grace looked less than happy about it; Charles and Sasha exchanged disgruntled expressions, and to add to the tension, Sasha broke a glass in her hand. It caused a commotion, but it was all smoothed over in a matter of seconds. Right after, Elijah proposed a toast; and all of them drank to it, excluding Sylvia, whose eyes narrowed as she watched the step family with suspicion.

Later that night, Sylvia had decided to spend the night at the Van Dahl mansion. More or less to make sure the family didn't try anything on Oswald. The gnawing suspicion in her gut would not let her lie still; after an hour of tossing and turning, she shouldered off the covers and started down the stairs where she sat in the living room.

Jim was in prison. Oswald was not acting like himself. Tabitha and Butch had now twice tried to usurp her authority, and she was spending the night under the roof with a family she could not trust to kill her with kindness.

"You're up late, my dear."

Sylvia startled, quickly getting to her feet to see Elijah coming down the stairwell and strolling into the room, wearing a white robe-like night gown and a cotton knit cap. He held a candle in his hand, lit aflame. Seeing her, his face contorted with first surprise then, second, admission of another feeling.

"I'm sorry," said Elijah. "I did not mean to startle you."

"These days I'm easily startled." She admitted, letting out a quivering laugh. "It's becoming a personality trait, actually."

Elijah encouraged her to sit after he made tea and placed a cup in front her, as well as one in front of him.

"You knew Gertrud, didn't you?"

He sat across from her; a small, round table in between them.

"I did."

"Oswald said she didn't live a happy life. But a good one," Elijah reminisced. "Is this true?"

"A lot more accurate than I care to admit," She replied, brushing a hand through her hair.

"He's also informed me that he was not the best son…."

"What are you getting at, Mr. Van Dahl? Are you fact-checking him? Wanna know if he's lying to you or…."

"No, no, no, my dear, no. Nothing of the sort. He just seems like a nice, young man, I find it hard to believe him," said Elijah gently.

"He _is_ a nice man."

"But, I'm sure as eggs, that he was not always good. You're his intended. I suspect you know his character a lot better than I do."

"You're not wrong."

"I'm not right either." Elijah chortled. He took a sip of his tea, and said lightly, "Do you have trouble sleeping?"

"Yes, but not for the reasons you would think."

"What reasons would they be?"

"Reasons that I doubt you'd have the privilege to understand. Mr. Van Dahl…."

"Please…call me 'Elijah'."

"Fine then. Elijah, you don't know me as well as you think you do."

"Perhaps not." He submitted. "But here are the things I do know. You love Oswald, and you care for him deeply. You're very protective of him. And you would do anything to make him happy. If this was the only thing I had the privilege to know about you, I'd say that would be enough."

Sylvia placed her chin in the palm of her hand: "Well, I guess I know now from which parent he gets his silver tongue. I'm still trying to decide from whom he gets his handsome looks; I'm suspecting it may come from his father."

Elijah chortled modestly.

"You have quite the silver tongue yourself, my dear. Tomorrow is going to be a beautiful morning. I'd wake up early for it, if I were you."

"Sure thing. Good night, Elijah."

"Good night, Sylvia."

Sylvia started up the stairs, and slipped inside the bedroom without so much as a peep. She closed the door with a click and lied down on the bed. Oswald was asleep on his back; his soft breathing and the slow rising of his chest were hypnotic. She snuggled closer to him. It was as close as she had been to him in a matter of days, and it felt so good. At the feeling of her, Oswald turned, moving closer to her.

"I love you, Ozzie." She whispered.

"As I love you," He murmured, half-asleep.

For a moment, it was normal. No worries. No doubts or suspicions.

* * *

She was almost asleep, until she felt a soft nudging against her thigh. She feigned sleep until she realized it was Oswald nudging her. He was still half-asleep, in the middle of the night, his hips thrusting against hers ever so gently and slowly. Sylvia smirked, feeling a little horny herself upon the realization. Poking out from his black pajama bottoms was his hard-on; what had incurred his mood, Sylvia didn't know—nor did she care.

She didn't even know if he was completely awake. She turned to him, wrapping a leg around his waist, allowing him to rub his stiffened bulge against her silky pajama pants. He'd barely said anything; just as she was about to speak, his mouth came crashing against hers. Hungrily.

"Someone's in a mood," Sylvia teased, her lips brushing against his.

His hands clung to the silky material of her blouse, running the pads of his fingers along the hem, as though begging for an invitation. Not only did his personality change, but his sexual mannerisms had changed as well. Any other time, Oswald would have taken what belonged to him—no permission of any sort. And it seemed to kill him wanting more but…. he was so submissive.

"Do you want me, Ozzie?" Sylvia asked softly, running her tongue over his bottom lip.

He nodded with a soft whimper, pushing his hips desperately against hers.

She climbed on him, knowing he wouldn't push her away, or try to gain the upper hand. Strange had really gotten into his head; there was not an ounce of aggression in his being. He looked up at her imploringly, his erection standing up through his pants. Sylvia stood to push down her pants and step out of both her underwear and pajamas, smiling mischievously when she saw his eyes widen.

He reminded her of a dog in heat; his hips never stopped moving, searching for any type of friction. Sylvia knelt down, straddled his hips and she lowered herself down to all fours, whispering in his ear, "Are you going to be a good boy, Ozzie?"

"Yes." He mumbled.

"Are you going to be quiet?" She asked, nibbling his earlobe.

Her voice reverberated a needy part of him, and made him shiver with an unexpected surge of delightful tingles.

"Y-yes."

Sylvia slipped her hand inside the waistband of his pants, watching his expressive face come to life when her fingers wrapped around his stiff cock.

"Mmm. Is Oswald excited?" She teased; her thumb prodded the slit of his cock head. "Oh, I think he is."

His hands stayed on the bed, fingers palming and clutching the sheets. He lifted his head to kiss her; Sylvia placated him, shoving her mouth against his. He let out an eager moan.

"Were you having dreams about me?"

He nodded.

"Naughty, wet dreams?"

"Mmm..."

"I take that as a 'yes'."

She kissed him again; then her lips left his. She moved his pants and underwear down his legs. He watched her attentively, his eyes widening then closing in bliss when she took his cock in her mouth, her tongue swirling around as she sucked. His back arched in response; his lips parted in skin-tingling pleasure.

"I want you…" He whimpered.

"I know you do, baby." Sylvia condescended, licking the head of his cock gingerly. "But I have to have my fun with you first."

She half-expected him to experience a surge of hostility. Something similar to the way the past Oswald would respond after she teased him for so long. Instead, he submitted, relenting to wait out her fun so he could gather his reward. In all honesty, his lack of fight and fire almost turned her off.

Almost.

She couldn't deny that hearing his adamant soft moans spurred her on. Her hand slipped under his pelvis, her fingers cupping and massaging his balls. He gripped the bed sheets, knuckles paling; and he bit his bottom lip so that no one in the house could hear him.

The titillating idea of being caught was almost worth the risk of making him scream.

"You like me on top, don't you?" Sylvia purred. She lifted his cock to slide between the lips of her heat, just along her wet entrance. "Don't you…Hmm?"

"Yes, yes, god, yes…." Oswald whispered like a prayer.

His back arched again when the head of his cock touched her clit. Sylvia slowly pushed him inside of her, lowering herself onto him until he was in balls-deep. Oswald let out a loud moan; Sylvia clamped a hand over his mouth, smirking at him.

She'd nearly forgotten how vocal he was!

She began to ride him, slowly. Intimately.

She lowered her body onto his so even her taut nipples grazed his chest. His eyes closed in ecstasy; his hands rubbed up and down her back in appreciation.

"That's it, baby. It feels good, doesn't it?" Sylvia whispered into his ear.

He nodded, gratefully licking the palm of the hand that kept his mouth shut. She moved in a rhythm that he matched, and it took everything it had in her not to start moaning her heart out. Oswald seemed content to let her manhandle him as she pleased.

Sylvia took her hand from his mouth and kissed him, inwardly smiling proudly when he quickly tried to show his love for her with deep, passionate kisses. She caught his hands that tried caressing her face and pinned them above his head; he looked at her in surprise, but smiled when she continued to kiss him.

His cock moved in and out of her slick heat. A pressure building inside her core. Sylvia locked her mouth over his when she felt herself come, her cunt clenching around his cock and pulling an involuntary moan out of him as he spilled his seed inside of her.

Sylvia kissed his cheek, and he looked at her with relief.

It might have been an hour later, but she was still awake.

"You've changed a great deal, haven't you, Oz?" Sylvia said quietly as she nuzzled his neck.

"I'd say you have too." He mumbled.

She looked at him, startled.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I wasn't."

"Clearly. But you're wrong: I haven't changed at all."

"Maybe that's something to consider."

Sylvia sat up, looking at him.

"Meaning what exactly?"

He sat up too. He fidgeted with the hem of the comforter, more intent on avoiding her eyes than seeing whatever emotion would appear on her face if he spoke.

"You want to tell me something. Tell me what you feel."

Oswald looked at her.

"You know I love you, don't you?" (She nodded.) "And I would do anything for you."

"Of course." Sylvia stated. "But that's not what you want to tell me, is it?"

"Sylvia, I've come to realize that I love you a great deal. More than I can ever put into words, but there's something missing between us. I've felt it. Haven't you?"

She bit her lip.

"What if I haven't?"

"You _have_. I can see it in your eyes."

"So, we've lost a connection. You've been gone for months, stuck in an asylum. We've gotten over a lot worse. And we can get through this."

Oswald cleared his throat and placed her hand over his heart, looking at her: "Sylvia…. I love you. But not in the same way I used to love you. I don't know if that makes any sense…. I suppose it doesn't. But you and I both know I am not the same man I used to be. I'm unable to love you in the same way I used to."

Sylvia said sadly, "You're breaking up with me, aren't you?"

"It's not that…."

"Then what else is _this_?" She questioned, getting out of bed and looking at him. "What, you think you can go to Arkham for a few months, and then suddenly you're cured of all the bad things you've done and I'm what—your X factor? A trigger, a remembrance to all your ugly past deeds?"

Oswald gazed at her uncertainly; whether he admitted it or not, his silence seemed to be the answer. She couldn't deny that she was hurt.

She said spitefully with teary eyes, "I'm a trigger, right? I'm the thing that symbolizes all of your sins."

"It's not that!"

"You know, if that was all to it, I could understand why you wouldn't want to be around me anymore. What confuses _me_ is despite your 'rehabilitation' your subconscious dreams up all of the things we've done, and you wake up in the middle of the night wanting to fuck me. You either want me or you don't—so which one is it!"

He stared at her, unable to answer her question.

"You think I'm a bad influence, right?" She said, pointing at him.

"Well, you use violence to solve your problems. Violence isn't the answer."

"Oh, it's not?"

"That's what Hugo has shown me."

"That's not you, Oswald!" Sylvia said dishearteningly. "Hugo Strange is an idiot."

"That's another thing: Anger isn't going to help—"

"'Anger and violence aren't the answers'? Are you kidding me! Baby, anger and violence has been my _only_ way of coping with all the shit that I've been going through. Between Tabitha and Butch trying to destroy everything you and I built together, and my fucking brother going to prison…"

Her voice broke, and Oswald's eyebrows raised at her proclamation about what had happened with Jim. He hadn't been aware. But that didn't make a difference.

She gathered her clothes from the night before.

"You know what…" Sylvia said heatedly. "I'm going back to the mansion. I still have loose ends to tie up and I sure as hell can't do that _here_. Especially with that new _family_ of yours."

"They're good people, Sylvia…."

"Good people? _Good people_?" Sylvia exclaimed, dropping her clothes.

"They are."

"You're so concerned with me being violent? At least I'm openly aggressive. Your stepfamily—Grace, Sasha, and Charles—are no better than me. _Worse_ , actually."

Her voice somehow balanced between hysterical crying and meticulous calm.

"Sylvia, can't you see—"

"—They have a plan in place to get rid of either you or Elijah, or both. I don't know what they're planning, but I'm sure it's nothing good."

Thinking this was impossible, Oswald protested, "They're my family."

"They're _his_ family," Sylvia hissed. "They're not _yours_. Wanna know what family is, Ozzie? It's people who care for you, love you unconditionally. Elijah may be your family, but _they_ are not. They're liars. They're criminals…. _worse_ …."

"I can't believe that. I can't. I…."

As hurt as she felt by his rejection, there was something much darker at play, and she could see it by the confusion and denial in his eyes. When she did, Sylvia's heart ached with the familiar need to protect him, but the pain of not being able to persuade him to her logical thinking was what hurt more.

Gently, she caressed his face between her palms.

"You're a lost soul, Ozzie. Lost and irrevocably misplaced. And that's not your fault. That fault belongs with Strange."

Oswald stared at her; he was at a loss for words.

Seeing that there was no getting through to him, Sylvia smiled sadly, knowing he couldn't accept her words fully.

Her lips brushed against his as she whispered, "I love you, darling. I'll always be here for you. When you remember who you are—you know where to find me."

She kissed his cheek and then left the mansion without another world while Oswald remained sitting on the bed, looking in the direction where she had gone.


	14. Secrets Spoken In The Snow

Chapter Fourteen: Secrets Spoken In The Snow

* * *

In the time that passed, Sylvia became more paranoid. The only people she trusted belonged to her inner circle: Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, Brittany, Delilah, and Mr. Bell. Everyone else was either an enemy or an acquaintance she barely let step twenty feet closer to her. Aside from Ed, her friends were few and far between.

Weeks had passed.

She and Oswald were separated and her brother was still serving time for crimes he didn't commit.

Her power struggle with Tabitha and Butch was surprisingly short-lived when neither of them dared to contest her for a third time. And this was due to the last example made when Drake Anderson tried to go behind her back and make deals with the other contenders. Word got out, and Sylvia smashed his head into the carpet with a cinder block.

While she had been very tolerant of insubordination, even to the point where she behaved almost diplomatically, it seemed like the last of her patience had been exuded after Anderson's death got out. It was bound to happen; he was a made man within the Anderson Family, and the father was so devastated that he'd sent a hitman after Sylvia; luckily, for her, Victor Zsasz knew said hitman, offered him a deal, and the contract was swept under the rug.

Her temper was getting the best of her, but not without a fight. When after she found out through a thug that it was the senior Anderson who had put a hit out on her, Sylvia also discovered from the same source that her brother had been busted out of jail. No one knew how or why, but he was out and lurking around Gotham somewhere.

She figured Jim would have come to her. Then again, knowing her affiliation with the baddies who would be more than willing to catch him for a price, the odds of Jim asking for her help were little to none.

Odds are, he'd found out about Lee and how she'd lost the baby. The news was devastating to begin with, and it pained Sylvia to know it...but there wasn't much to be done about it. And going after Lee would only make things harder for the doctor, wouldn't it? After all, Sylvia was Jim's sister. Just that knowledge alone would erase all the work Lee had done in order to move on.

* * *

Occasionally, Ed made the visit to see how well Sylvia was doing. She didn't really say much of anything. And with that said, Ed couldn't offer much advice. He knew once he'd started talking, all of his secrets—including the one about framing Jim Gordon—would leak out and then, oh boy, he'd be in a shit of trouble.

He hadn't even considered the possibility of getting arrested by the officers. He was just too wound up about what Sylvia would do if she found out. He'd made it impossible for anyone to know it was him: disguised his voice, that sort of thing.

That had been easy enough.

But then…. lo and behold, Jim popped up out of nowhere. He had to improvise, tell him that there was no way of figuring out the voice that had reported the crime to IA. Jim saw Ed as a friend; that was easy enough to use. But then, of course, Jim had to make things so much more difficult.

The tape came clean. And because of that, so had Ed.

Now here they were. With Ed dragging Jim by the feet to the trunk of his car, banking on the fact that he'd have to not only move Kristen Kringle but make room for Jim's dilapidated body, it was going to be an all-nighter. That's why Ed packed a few expressos.

"I hope you like outdoors, Jimbo," Ed mused as he opened the trunk. "I know just the spot."

He turned. And the body was gone. He looked up, and Jim was climbing into a window. Ed whipped out the gun, started shooting, but Jim was a slippery bastard. Even though he got him with a round, Jim still evaded.

"Damn it!" Ed grunted.

He ran inside the building. Looked like a factory of some sort. Ed looked left and right, but saw no Jim Gordon. No surprise there.

"Come out, come out, where ever you are!"

He started strolling forward. Cautiously.

"I bet you're wondering 'why would Ed do this to me? Set me up. Ruin my life.' I'll give you a hint, Jimbo. K.K."

Ed heard Jim's uttered answer ("Kristen Kringle") and he was chasing after him like a dog after a mongoose. And just as quickly, he'd lost him. Well…back to the drawing board.

Ed would have to rebury Kristen, hide her body.

 _You idiot_.

Ed sighed, looking up at the sky as he started uprooting the snowy soil from Kristen's burial plot. Not _this_ guy again.

As though the darker Edward heard him (and, let's be honest, he did), the man materialized up out of the ground, sitting on the snow as though it was a comfortable blanket rather than cold precipitation.

"Sylvia was right. You really don't know what you're getting into. She _knew_ you'd buckle under the pressure…one body in the ground, and you're going bat shit crazy, aren't ya?"

Ed grumbled as he stomped the shovel deep into the snow, saying, "I'm not listening to you. You might as well just go away."

"This was a terrible way to go."

"I planned it _perfectly_ ," Ed snapped, glaring at his mirrored self. "And you _know_ it. Gordon is sneaking around; Bullock's no better. It…"

"She said it was only a matter of time. You know what, I'll cut you a break. You lasted a _lot_ longer than I thought you would. With the bird and her all but divorced, that would have been your golden opportunity to step in as the triumphant hero, but no…you got cold feet."

Ed murmured, "She's been in a bad temper, mind you. And thanks to _you_ " (He thrusted a finger towards the other Edward) "she won't let me get another inch near her."

"Well, bud, you kissed her."

"No, _you_ did! If we did what _I_ wanted, we wouldn't be in this situation right now. We wouldn't be digging up Ms. Kringle, because she wouldn't have liked the confident you. And we wouldn't even be in this situation because she wouldn't be dead _because_ we wouldn't have stepped thirty-five feet towards her."

"Kringle wouldn't be dead, but you'd still want Sylvia," reminded Edward.

"She has more things to worry about than a relationship."

"Yeah, because you put her brother in jail."

"He was getting too close," Ed argued. "He would've found Kringle."

"What happens when Sylvia finds out what you've done?" Edward laughed. "Oh man! She is going to be punitive with you!"

"She's going to be mad at you too, you know."

"Yeah, but I'm not the one in control right now, am I?" Edward scoffed.

"I'm ignoring you now."

He was just about to pick up the box when he heard a twig snapping. He slowly put down the shovel, then took the gun from his innermost pocket, pointing it behind him, facing that direction.

"Jim Gordon…." Ed drawled. "So, you found Penguin, huh. And that little bird sang. He told you what happened to Ms. Kringle, didn't he?"

"No." Jim answered, holding up his hands in surrender. "I just followed you."

"Of course." Ed muttered, looking up at the sky. "That's the plot twist of a century, isn't it?"

"How did this happen to you? How did you become this?"

Ed lowered the gun for a second, saying practically, "It's funny you say that, Jim. I've _always_ been this. It just took me some time to admit it to myself. And a few incidents in between….and murdering some people."

"I don't believe that."

"You don't believe that? Why, Jim. Because it would make you incompetent to know that I was right under your nose? Or you don't want to admit that there's a monster in all of us—because _you of all people should know that_!" Ed shouted, then he laughed, "That's what made it so easy for me to frame you!"

"I was your friend."

"Were you, Jim? Were you my friend? Or did you just pity me? 'Poor little Ed with his silly little wordplay and his riddles'."

"I considered you my friend."

"The fun part about that is that I almost thought you were. Now, Sylvia—on the other hand—she's a real friend, you know. She never betrayed me….even with her knowing what happened to Ms. Kringle, _and_ Dougherty. But let's be honest—none of us liked him. But Sylvia….She forgives, and forgets—"

"Her forgiveness isn't cheap," said Jim darkly. "You have to earn it."

"That, we both can agree on. I heard Drake Anderson got his head smashed in with a brick after she found out he was trying to go behind her back." Ed smirked. "It would turn a lot of guys off—that kind of temper—but I find that it just keeps pulling me right back."

"When Vee finds out what you've put me through—"

"How will she find out, if you're dead," Ed offered logically. "If killing you is going to be anything like framing you, I imagine it'll be easy as pie."

"You're completely insane."

"Yeah. Well…it's probably easier for you to think that. How about one last riddle for old time's sake?"

"Sure. Why not."

"A nightmare for some. For others, a savior, I come. My hands, cold and bleak. It's the warm hearts, they seek." Ed riddled. "What am I?"

"Death."

"Right again," said Ed, giving him a thumb's up. He turned that thumb's up into a wave of good-bye. Just as he was about to shoot Jim, he heard Barnes shout at him.

He tried to tell him that he was arresting Jim, but apparently, they'd heard the entire thing.

He tried to make a run for it, but clumsily tripped over a log.

Everyone pointed their guns at him; Ed looked up from his place in the snow, and quickly held up his hands.

"Oh, crud."


	15. I Did It For You

Chapter Fifteen: I Did It for You

* * *

Sylvia received a letter.

Because Brittany took care of _Lean on Vee's_ ins and outs as Sylvia's second-in-command and scheduled maintenance as needed (having become her other Tiffany Rubberdale, so to speak) and because Mr. Bell was the bookkeeper for the criminal activities, nothing of value came in the mail for her.

Nothing but this letter.

Sylvia sat in the Meeting Room as she took it from Mr. Bell, who also placed a cup of tea in front of her. She thanked him quietly, before opening the envelope with uncertain fingers, dreading the worst.

First, she noticed it was Oswald's handwriting. A certain ache found its way to her heart, and Sylvia bit her lip when she began reading it.

' _Pigeon,_

 _Please come to the Van Dahl mansion. I need to speak with you._

 _Truly Yours,_

 _Oswald'_

The letter itself was short and simple, but the meaning behind it was complex. Sylvia held the letter to her chest, and smiled at Mr. Bell who readily smiled in return.

"I'll be back." She said, standing and taking her coat. "Would you…."

"I'll look after things until you return, yes, ma'am." Mr. Bell reassured.

Quickly, Sylvia got into her car and headed towards the Van Dahl mansion. She'd only been there twice—the first time was meeting Van Dahl in a more comfortable setting instead of a cemetery. The second and last time was when she spent the night with Oswald…. things didn't end too well on either end, but the memory was sentimental in value.

Sylvia parked the car in front of the mansion, taking long, deep but subtle breaths. She had to prepare herself. She wasn't certain if Oswald had come to his saner wits, but the letter itself had addressed her in a way only the real Oswald would have. A glimmer of hope.

She turned off the car and stepped out of the vehicle, holding onto the letter. Her white, three-inch heels clicked on the concrete; her equally white knee-high, flowing dress, seemed to ripple in the chilling breeze. She shrugged away the wintry feeling, tightening her coat closer to her body.

She opened the door. The horror cliché of the creaky hinges did nothing for her nerves. Stepping over the threshold, closing the door behind her, it was as though the air around her had spiked ten degrees when the heat of the fireplace hit her so quickly. Sylvia placed her coat on the couch, calling out, "Oswald?"

No answer.

She bit her lip nervously, looking all around. She was half-surprised not to see Sasha or Charles…. or Grace, for that matter. Seeing no one in the living room, she ventured into the kitchen; no one was there either, so her next stop was the dining room. Sylvia caught a leering presence at the table; a woman enjoying her dinner too much. The woman's head was literally lying on the platter.

"Grace?" Sylvia said quietly.

She rounded the table, and pulled the woman's shoulder back. Her throat was slit, her eyes staring into nothingness. Sylvia startled, only because she hadn't been expecting it.

"Holy shit…." She mumbled.

" _I wouldn't be too disappointed, if I were you."_

"OH FUCK!"

She jumped and turned to see Oswald Cobblepot rounding the corner, his body leaned up against the wall lazily, his arms crossed over his chest. With the shock fading away as fast as it had come, she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth; a sliver of embarrassment from being so easily startled dusted her cheeks in a bright shade of pink.

"She's normally more talkative than this," Oswald joked, grinning. He acknowledged the dead woman, saying, "Don't be rude, Grace. Say 'hello'."

Sylvia didn't expect her to return the greeting, but it was funny in a dark way. Oswald shrugged when no responses came and he walked towards Sylvia, who looked him up and down, noticing there was blood on his neck, the cufflinks of his green plaid suit, and on his chest.

"Oz, you're…." She said surprisingly, gesturing to him.

"Back to normal, I daresay." He returned, smiling sheepishly at her.

"Why did you…."

She looked at Grace…. or at least, what used to be Grace.

"Kill her?" Oswald offered, finishing her question.

She nodded.

"She killed my father." He sat in a seat beside Grace. "She, along with the help of my step-siblings, conspired against him for his fortune and ultimately killed him. They poisoned him. He died in my arms. I didn't know it was them until –as if by happenstance—I came by the sherry decanter."

Sylvia stared at him then glanced at Grace's surprised, dead expression. She leaned her back against the table, standing in front of and slightly adjacent to Oswald, who watched her with a look of expectation.

"I see." She uttered, looking at the dead body. "Well, that certainly explains the demise of your stepmother. But what about her kids? Sasha and what's-his-face."

"Sasha and Charles? They're on the table." He grinned widely, nodding to the table. "Can't you tell?"

She noticed the old roasted slices on platters.

"You let a good roast go to waste. You could have put it in the refrigerator."

"Trust me, Pet. No cook with half a brain or an ounce of pride would serve the likes of them to you," He reassured, grinning up at her.

She returned the coy little smile. Inadvertently as she did, her hand touched Grace's arm, but she didn't even flinch. She sent the corpse a sharp glance.

Sylvia said softly, "I got your letter."

Oswald stood and tucked his hands in his pockets, his back straightening: "You're here…. I would have assumed that you did."

"You said you wanted to talk," She said seriously. "So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

Oswald approached her, standing so close to her that she could smell the wine on his breath, the blood on his suit. It was an interesting combination, one that Sylvia was all too familiar with. He looked her up and down; and she mirrored him in the same aspect, although her eyes reflected uncertainty whereas he appeared entitled to stand this close to her.

"A number of things," He answered, slowly removing his hands from his pockets to fold together. "First to say that you were right about them, my 'family'—you tried to warn me about their ulterior motives. At the time, I thought you were trying to thwart me. I didn't listen to you. Had I done so, my father may very well still be alive. You were trying to protect me, and I didn't believe you. For that, I am sorry."

Her brain started getting a little fuzzy; her legs getting weak when he cradled her face between his hands, his thumbs caressing over her cheeks like she was the most precious flower in all of the lands. Feeling his touch, Sylvia covered his wrists with the palm of her hands, disbelieving that the shy, innocent, soft-spoken man she'd left in the mansion was the same man standing before her.

There were moments between them shared, during which she couldn't believe he could be the same innocent-minded, naive, child-like wonder one second, then a bloodthirsty, violent man in the next. In one minute, Oswald could reveal an insurmountable number of expressions and personalities. And she'd missed this…. missed _him._ She licked her lips nervously—her nerves relying on her fluttering heart, and the way he watched her.

"Pigeon, you must know I didn't mean any of the things I said," Oswald said apologetically, his eyes searching hers for forgiveness. "I wasn't thinking straight. I wasn't myself."

"I know. I knew once you remembered who you were, you'd come back to me."

"Or rather _you_ would find _me_." Oswald teased, slyly smiling at her.

"Of course. I knew where you lived."

"Out of context, that sounds like stalking."

He lowered his hands to her shoulders; her fingers moved to his tie, fiddling with the knot. Just to be touching him again was another feeling altogether.

"If it makes you feel any different, I also like watching you sleep," She winked at him. "I knew you'd remember who you are. Although, I figured your amnesia might have lasted a little longer. What prompted it?"

"Seeing the decanter."

She nuzzled his neck with her nose and Oswald smiled as she licked the skin beneath his jaw. The urge to feel closer to her was becoming a nuisance, but a pleasant one. He moved forward, planting his palms on the surface of the table, placed on either side of her. She wrapped her arms around him, bringing him closer to her.

"That sounds traumatic," Sylvia looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry about your father. He seemed like a nice man."

"He was…."

"But?"

"Knowing both of my parents loved me unconditionally has been a pleasant discovery," Oswald said quietly. "But neither of them knew the real me."

"Your dad knew. He told me you told him all the things you'd done."

"Not all of it was regrettable. If he'd known that part of me, I doubt he would have been so forgiving."

Sylvia ran her hands through his hair, gently massaging his head. Playfully, she tugged at the roots, and Oswald exhaled an amused, breathy laugh.

"You know everything about me."

"That, I do."

"And you still love me?" Oswald asked. He wanted validation. "After everything I said to you—"

"Always." She whispered. "As with your parents, my love for you is unconditional. I'd love you if you had never done a single bad thing in your life, or if you killed people just for fun. As fun as it was seeing your innocent mind wander, I personally am glad you're back to your normal self."

"'Glad', huh?" Oswald said cheekily. "I'd love to know why."

"You and I may not always agree on _everything;_ that keeps us constantly guessing each other, it keeps things unpredictable. Even if you were someone completely different, there's always going to be one bond that we share."

"And what is that, I wonder."

Sylvia kissed his cheek, whispering lovingly, "You have a darkness like mine."

"Mm. I suppose we _do_ have that in common."

"Yes, and as much as I love your sweet, innocent _other_ you…without your criminal side, things would have gotten really boring. In all seriousness, though…I missed you."

Something lit a fire inside of him. Perhaps it was the way her body brushed against him, like a soft but knowing nudge against the place he was starting to crave her the most.

"You wanted to talk, and so we've talked." Sylvia said, smirking at him.

"That we have."

He pushed himself against her, licking her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue as he murmured, "Do you know what I want to do now?"

"I can't say I do." Sylvia teased. Her arms folded behind his back. "Mm. I'm not a mind reader."

"What if I gave you a hint."

He lowered his hand from the small of her back and slid it up her dress and over the material of her underwear, cupping her pussy with the palm of his hand. He rubbed her clit with the pad of his thumb through her panties, while he slipped his tongue between her lips for a tender kiss.

"Not in front of your stepmother—that's weird," She chastised, pushing her hands against his chest.

"Feeling shy, are we?" Oswald said, unable to hide his entertainment between kisses. "She's dead, Pigeon."

Her eyebrow quirked upwards: "No respect for the dead, huh?"

"On a contrary. I have an incredible amount of respect for the dead. Just not for _her_."

"Shameless…." She laughed.

He silenced her objections with a kiss, finding her tongue and rubbing it with his own. His taste was intoxicating, and the feel of his thumb rubbing circles around and then over her clit was riding out her inhibitions; his other hand in her hair, untangling her ponytail so he could freely grab onto any of her locks.

Her hands lowered to his chest, grabbing the lapels of his suit.

"Baby…."

"What is it, Pigeon?"

"I want you."

"I can tell." Oswald said sheepishly. To prove a point, he dipped his fingers inside the front of her panties, feeling her heat.

Sylvia bit her bottom lip.

"How much do you want me?"

Her jaw clenched as she murmured, " _Badly_."

"'Badly'?" Oswald repeated, smirking at her. "That's quite a lot."

Sylvia brought her hand down to his pants, feeling the stiff bulge there. He let out an involuntary moan when her fingers stroked his cock through the material.

"Looks like you want me just as much," She said proudly.

She slid her hand between the waistband of his slacks and his bare stomach, rubbing her palm down to his naked cock; he inhaled sharply when her fingers wrapped around it in a firm hold.

"Ooh, someone's a little excited, Mr. Penguin."

Her tongue ran over his bottom lip, and her teeth grazed his chin and jaw as she kissed his neck, tasting him. Her thumb rolled over the slit of his cock head, teasing it and the rest of him.

"Let's take him out to play, hm?" She whispered, unzipping his fly and loosening his belt to allow his cock to come out freely. And she did it all so slowly and patiently.

Oswald clicked his tongue, and with a growl, he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her through the kitchen and into the living room. Sylvia giggled, although she had to hold onto the roots from where he grabbed her, making sure he didn't pull it completely out of her scalp.

He pushed her onto the couch; she landed on her back, falling into the cushions. She chuckled when he was already moving on top of her, planting hungry kisses over her blouse top, up the column of her throat and meeting her lips with an intense, passionate kiss of his own. She met him with the same heat.

Oswald was kissing her neck and running his hands up and down her dress, feeling all of her. She reached up, leveling the field and grabbed his hair, yanking it back so Oswald groaned; she kissed his Adam's apple, running her tongue over it; it bobbed when he gulped.

He tugged the V-neck of her shirt down, exposing a braless breast. Lowering his head, he suckled on her taut mound, rolling his tongue around it, one of his hands playing with the other—Sylvia wiggled underneath him, aching for more control but equally wishing to be dominated.

He stood up suddenly, and Sylvia grinned widely when he shrugged off his waist coat, sliding his tie off shortly after, and unbuckling his belt. All of this was done in haste, like he couldn't wait to take her. She quickly moved to her knees, smiling up at him with puppy dog eyes as he pulled down his trousers.

"Does Pigeon want a taste?" Oswald asked sardonically. "Is that what she's asking?"

She nodded eagerly.

He stroked his cock, watching her mouth practically water with want.

"Beg for it, darling. Tell me how much you want it."

She licked her lips, and crawled to him on her hands and knees.

"I want it," She said sweetly. "Please, sir, can I have it?"

"Look at you saying 'please' and 'sir'," Oswald praised. "So sweet and polite, aren't you, Pet? Come and get it."

He gave her the signal of 'come hither', and she eagerly moved towards him. She opened her mouth, and tasted the head of his cock, running her tongue up and down his shaft slowly. Oswald groaned; he grabbed her hair none too gently, and growled, "Enough of that. Don't tease, Sylvia."

She grinned at the response. _That's_ what she wanted to hear.

Eager to please him, Sylvia took him in her mouth completely, sucking, making things messy. He sounded off beautifully, soft moans at first then achingly needy. Her fingers dug into his buttocks, pulling him forward so she could take even more of him.

"Oh, hell…." He groaned.

He pulled her off him just as he was about to come; he was panting.

"You know how to do that so well, don't you, Pet?" Oswald said breathlessly. "Fuck…. I love your enthusiasm."

Sylvia licked her lips.

"You can have me anyway you like, Oz. On the couch…"—She lowered herself to the floor, lying on her back— "We can do it right here on the floor...like a couple of teenagers."

Oswald gazed down at her, vexed between wanting her on the bed or taking her now as she presented herself to him. Being one of patience, he'd normally take it up to the bedroom, but—

He lowered himself to the floor, and watched her pull the throw pillows and blanket off the couch and placing them around to make the ground more comfortable for the both of them. He really did take her for granted sometimes, Oswald cared to note.

In front of the fireplace on a cold winter day. This was more romantic than intended.

They undressed each other, with the force of patience and Sylvia's half pint of self-control. When neither of them had any clothes left to shred, and she was distracted, he pinned Sylvia on her back, smirking down at her; she returned it.

"Got a few control issues to work out, Mr. Penguin?" She remarked, licking her bottom lip with relish.

"Between the two of us, I believe I am the _only_ one exercising any type of control for the moment."

"Is _that_ right?"

"Yes, Pet," Oswald said, kissing her neck.

"Well, what self-control I lack, you seem to more than make up for it," Sylvia noted, lifting her head up, tilting it to the side smartly. "By the way, I've had _more_ than enough self-control running the empire alone. You should be damn proud of _that_ , sir."

Oswald raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he grinned: "Oh-ohhh, is that so?"

"Yes, it _is_ so." Sylvia returned, lowering her head back to the floor. "I've never been more exhausted in my entire life. Fucking lunatics running around, destroying shit—idiotic men getting drunk when they're supposed to be working—it's enough to drive me crazy. And I've just about had it with—mmmm…."

He shoved his mouth on hers, crushing her rant and pulling a moan out of her.

"Don't worry, Pigeon. I'm in charge now," Oswald uttered, nipping at her bottom lip. "Just relax."

"Says you. Have you ever tried to relax? It's a paradox."

"Perhaps I can assist."

"What are you…." Her voice trailed off when he moved himself down her body, trailing kisses down her chest, over her stomach, until his head was between her legs.

Oswald let out a satisfied sigh, the vibrations of the sound on her clit made Sylvia shiver. Delicious chills ran up and down her spine, a delightful tingle.

"Look at you," He whispered.

She moaned when his tongue licked inside her slit, tasting her excitement. His hands remained on her breasts, the index finger of each hand lazily circling each nipple, sending a toe-curling tingle throughout her body. The shiver even circled to her head.

"You're so wet already. You love sucking my cock, don't you, Pigeon?"

She nodded quickly, hoping he wouldn't stop teasing her.

"Yes, I know you do. Such a good girl."

His praise made her insides squirm.

Oswald kissed the swollen nub that was her clit, licking over and around it. He watched her stomach quiver with involuntary contractions, the way her inner thighs twitched and shook as he slowly brought her to a small, albeit bodily strong orgasm. When she let out a stream of whimpers and soft moans, he knew it without a doubt. Once more, he lapped up her excitement, tasting her sweet honey.

Oswald moved to his hands and knees, lining his hips with hers, moving between her legs, wincing when a surge of desire plagued him when he felt the hot, slippery wetness of her cunt make contact with his stiff cock; it pulsed with the knowing he'd be inside of her.

Sylvia lifted her head, her mouth touching his ear; she nibbled on him, and licked appreciatively.

"Are you relaxed now?" He asked knowingly.

"Quite. You can be very persuasive."

"I know I can."

" _So_ fucking cocky."

"Yeah, but you like that, don't you?"

He lowered his body onto hers, loving the way she sighed under his weight, how safe he knew she felt whilst under him. Oswald rubbed his cockhead between the lips of her wetness, enjoying the sound of her eager whimpers.

He slowly entered her, loving every soft keen that escaped her lips and resonated in his ears. Oswald covered her mouth with his own, tasting her fire. Her moans vibrated within his mouth, and his slow thrusts pulled many hungry whimpers from her.

"God, I've missed you," He murmured against her lips.

"I've missed you too…." She wrapped her legs around his waist, eagerly pulling him deeper inside. "Oh, _fuck_ …god!"

Sylvia met his thrusts with each of her own as he rolled his hips into hers.

The sound of the crackling fire; the static of the radio sounding from the end table; the rustling of the blanket and the carpet as they made love in the living room; and the subtle howling wind outside were all the sounds heard inside the Van Dahl mansion.

Slow, deep thrusts became faster and harder. The peak just on the horizon, the climax so close it was too terrible to think about stopping. Nails scrapped down backs and thighs, blood oozed where nails had dug; she could feel the rug burn underneath her back and buttocks as Oswald pounded deep inside of her.

"Fuck!" Sylvia cried. Just as she did, her entire world became intangible; her head was fuzzy; the explosion inside her core became strong, undeniable bliss; her body contracted, her back arched, and for a second, she wasn't even sure where she was.

"I'm close!" Oswald panted.

"Keep going," Sylvia said breathlessly. "Don't stop…."

He was desperately climbing up the pinnacle, so close but yet so far.

Sylvia smirked up at him, knowing just what he needed. She sat up quickly, throwing him off balance, and straddled him. Before he could protest, she grabbed his hands and pinned them above his head.

"Pigeon, what the hell are you—oh my _god_ …." Oswald moaned.

She impaled herself on his cock, then rode him hard, getting him back to his peak where he'd left off and her slick wetness swallowing him whole. Feverishly, her body gyrated against his; Sylvia watched his face go through all the expressions of protest, then eagerness…. then bliss.

His back arched, his toes curled, and Sylvia kept his wrists pinned down as his body went through its own seizure-like blissful orgasm. He relaxed, and she shivered when she felt his cum spill inside her.

"That was amazing."

"I thought so too." Oswald exhaled contentedly, looking up at her.

"You know, I love it when you're in charge. But it's becoming inherently obvious that deep, _deep_ inside, you loveit when I'm in control. Even if it's on occasion."

"You're not wrong."

"I know I'm not. I love you Daddy Penguin."

"I love you too, Mama Pigeon."

"Mm, I like it when you call me that," Sylvia purred, smirking at him. "Turns me on so much. I might need to fuck you again."

"Someone's frisky."

"Well, it doesn't help that you're very fuckable."

"Color me flattered." Oswald chuckled, grinning broadly. "You really know how to make a man feel good about himself."

"Mm…" She leaned into him, and licked his ear, and felt him shiver against her. "It's nice having you back, sweetheart. By the way—I saved the empire for you. It's still in working condition, you know, whenever you want it back."

"You've managed to keep everything together, have you?"

"A lot easier said than done, but yes. Despite the burden, I've kept it out of the hands of people like Tabitha Galavan," Sylvia rolled her eyes as she said the woman's name. "Things would go to shit if she ran things."

" _Now_ who has control issues."

"I could care less about Gotham's Underworld and its people," Sylvia admitted apathetically.

"Then why go through all the trouble of keeping it safe?"

"I didn't do it for them." She kissed his nose. "I did it for you."


	16. The Mole

Chapter Sixteen: The Mole

* * *

She wore in a navy, strapless dress, the hem falling below her heel so whenever she walked anywhere, she took a handful of the material closest to the top of her thigh and had to keep it up so as not to trip on her gown. When she had bought the dress, Sylvia was certain it would be beautiful—appropriate for the Big Night planned at the end of the month, a celebration of sorts.

And it _was_ beautiful. However, she didn't realize what a nuisance it would be to constantly pick up her dress whenever she decided to walk somewhere. She had to do it whenever she moved a few paces to the left or to the right, telling people where to stand, what to do, what to guard, and how to act.

The guards, her regulars being Chilly and Dagger, were standing like a pair of ghoulish gargoyles right beside the door. They reminded her of statues, the way they just eyed the audience, how shifty their eyes moved. Perhaps she'd ingrained their vigilance a little too well; they never knew when to relax, when to stay alert; it was a matter of job security and safety of the club; that was why Sylvia was so strict with them.

After a moment, she picked up her dress (again) and moved towards them. They glanced at her stiffly, noticing her presence and trying to look all professional for the boss.

"As you were, boys," sighed Sylvia, looking them over. "I think you can stop being bouncers tonight. No one's going to come in raiding."

"And what if they do?" Dagger proposed. "That's what they're expecting. They want us to get lazy. Get all calm and relaxed."

"You mean 'complacent'." Chilly offered the word, noticing Dagger was talking out of his ass. Trying to do his best to be the smarty-pants in front of Sylvia; he only acted vigilant when the boss was around; otherwise, Dagger was just any bruiser. Chilly might have had his gambling issues, and lord knew he still owed quite a lot of money to Sylvia, but at least he didn't talk with a foot in his mouth.

"Complacency isn't a fault as long as it doesn't disturb the work—but you're disturbing my regulars," Sylvia said, noticing that many of the patrons appeared put-off by the bouncer-like guards. "Relax, gentlemen. This is night of celebration."

"You mean we can put the safety back on our guns?" Dagger questioned.

Chilly's eyes widened to the size of UFOs as he exclaimed, " _Your safety wasn't on!_ You've been aiming that fucker at me several times now! You could have taken my fucking eye out a moment ago!"

"It's not my fault! I was tryna tell you where that fucker went—"

"—That 'fucker' was a goddamn waiter, and _you_ know that—"

"—He was acting weird!"

"BOYS!"

Chilly cleared his throat apologetically while Dagger still appeared indignant, glancing at Sylvia nervously until she held out her hands and placed each on the shoulder of her fine guardsmen.

"What did I just say, hm? _Relax_." She emphasized, patting their arms. "Look around. Do you see any threats?"

Dagger and Chilly peered around the room.

People were dressed in fancy clothes: Ballgowns, tuxedos, expensive suits, and jewelry. There was singing, dancing (some of the newer club attendees were having some Karaoke contest on the stage), a pianist was hitting it hard on the strings. On the sidelines, from where they stood, neither Dagger nor Chilly could sense any threat. As a result, they cracked a smile at their boss, and put an arm around one another with an apologetic chuckle, only offering one another a drink as they were encouraged to go to the bar.

Sylvia watched them for a moment, an amused expression crossing her features before something idled in her peripheral vision. It was a flicker of movement, something white. And although it had only been a few seconds, it hadn't escaped her. Once more, she gazed in the direction.

In the direction of her office.

Discreetly, she touched her outermost left thigh, pretending to straighten her dress. In all reality, she was minding the fact that her .44 was still sheathed in the holster strapped to her thigh over a black lacy garter. Her eyes traveled up the stairwells; minding the traffic that descended the steps, she smiled politely at her guests before proceeding further.

No need to alert anyone else of her suspicions.

Due to Tabitha and Butch's most recent exploits, her paranoia was slowly driving her into the ground. Mr. Bell and Brittany managed to keep her organized—between the club's management and the Underworld's musings—and she appeared to have it altogether. Inside, she was screaming. She was desperately hoping that Oswald would overcome whatever grief or anger he still felt towards the loss of his father and the murder of his step family, and come back to help her rule the empire—if not take it over completely.

She wanted to go back to how things were. Back when he was the King, and she was his willing subordinate. Those were easier days, for sure.

 _The door is open. Why is my office door open_?

And the action that shortly followed after her thought was an answer. She opened the door completely, slowly so as not to alert the intruder. The hinges creaked like something out of a horror movie; but by the time it did, Sylvia saw the figure dressed in a spaghetti-strapped white, knee-length cocktail dress.

"Brittany?" Her voice betrayed her surprise, seeing the young blonde snooping through the cabinets.

Or at least, she was trying to. Since the untimely event where Anderson had attempted to break into her office and grab the files on her brother and those officers, she considered family (namely Harvey Bullock), Sylvia had kept the files in a locked cabinet: under 'lock and key' indeed. She hadn't had any problems with any robberies since killing the most junior of the Anderson family: Drake. She thought the burglaries were over.

"What are you doing in here?" She asked calmly, closing the door behind her with a _click_ ; the blinds on the glass window pane shuttered with the light impact.

Hearing her name, Brittany had straightened suddenly. Caught in the act. She turned ever so slowly, looking to see her boss standing, now, in the room with her. Her face contorted into several expressions: surprise, shock, regret, guilt….and now, something indecipherable.

Brittany suddenly smiled, albeit nervously.

"I'll ask again." Sylvia said coolly. "What are you doing in my office? I didn't give you permission to enter."

"I was looking for something."

"'Looking for something'?"

"Yes…A file."

Sylvia sighed, and strode to her desk. Wordlessly, she opened a drawer, withdrew a single silver, triangular-shaped handle of a key. Just as silently, she walked towards the cabinet that Brittany had attempted to pry open with just her fingernails and opened it, withdrawing a single vanilla-colored folder from its contents.

Pointedly, Sylvia held it up, the label reading 'Detective James Gordon'.

"Is it this one, by chance?"

"Sylvia—"

" _Is it_?"

"Sylvia," Brittany flinched, holding her hands up fearfully. "I know what this must look like, but I swear…."

"You can explain," She finished flatly, throwing the file down on the surface of her desk. Sarcastically, she added, "I'm so sure you can. Have a seat, Brittany."

"Miss Sylvia….?"

"I said 'have a seat'. And don't make me repeat myself."

Brittany gulped nervously and sat in the arm chair directly across from her. Brittany's hands clutched at the hem of her white dress; her feet pinched together like she was trying to prevent the act of pissing all over herself. The blonde anxiously chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes darting between the file and Sylvia, who sat slowly in her chair.

"We're going to have a talk. I'm going to talk. You're going to listen. You will not interrupt me. You will not say a single _fucking_ word until I have finished. Am I clear? Nod, please, if you understand these terms as I have described them."

Brittany nodded slowly.

"Good. Now…." Sylvia sighed, leaning back in her chair. "What we have here is a dilemma. A conflict. A problem of great magnitude. This is not the first time I have found you in my office, snooping about; in fact, this is the second time, isn't it? I don't expect you to answer me. We both know it is."

Brittany rubbed her hands, her eyebrows knitting together uncertainly. She wasn't uncertain about the facts; there was a different emotion reflecting off her.

"The first time I found you here, Jim and I came in for a discussion. You told me you were looking for a file; you had one in your hand... _this_ one, in fact." She tapped the envelope with the middle finger of her right hand. "You told me that the reason you were getting it was because….?"

Brittany cleared her throat and said hoarsely, "Mr. Anderson wanted—"

"Ah yes, thank you," Sylvia said sarcastically. "I remember now. Mr. Anderson had demanded privy to my brother's profile. Of course, he would, and why wouldn't he? And you'd know why, wouldn't you, Brittany?"

Brittany nodded.

"How would you know?"

"I…." Brittany started. She had to start again when her throat clamped up unexpectedly, as she said dryly, "I go to the meetings."

" _Do_ you?"

"Not really, I suppose."

"You stand at the doors."

"Ma'am?"

Sylvia chuckled, opening a drawer and withdrawing a pack of cigarettes. She took one, placing the tip in her mouth while she reached into the same drawer and took out a lighter. Wordlessly, she lit the cigarette, plainly throwing the pack back into the drawer none too gently. At the rough gesture, Brittany glanced nervously at the hidden drawer then back to Sylvia's unblinking gaze.

"You," She exhaled a long sigh. "You know how much the Andersons have wanted a peek at Jim's file—who doesn't, after all—and I know that you stand just outside the double doors. I oftentimes have seen your shadow, lingering about. Outside of the room. Listening in."

"I never meant to offend you, Miss Sylvia."

"And I'm not offended. It's actually very smart."

"Ma'am?"

"Smart to eavesdrop, smart to collect information. You're a smart woman. No one's really given you enough credit, myself included." Her expression softened. "So maybe this whole thing" (She gestured to Brittany as well as the envelope and the office in general) "is partly my fault."

"What do you mean?"

"You're stealing from me," She said bluntly, looking at Brittany in the eye. "You're going behind my back."

Brittany's mind raced at ninety miles per hour: "I've not talked to anyone, Miss Sylvia. I've not been—"

"You're faithful, loyal, blah blah blah," Sylvia said flippantly, rolling her eyes. "I've heard it all before. What I don't understand is why you had to lie to me."

"Lie to you?"

"Yes. You _lied_ to me."

"When?"

" _When_? Well, I'm shocked that you don't remember."

"I don't!"

Sylvia sat back in her seat once more, looking more apathetic than ever. Inside, she was roiled with rage—the thought of someone so close to her heart getting the best of her. And she didn't even realize it until now! What an idiot she had been!

"I talked to Mr. Anderson," Sylvia said dangerously, glaring at Brittany. "I talked to him that day, asked him why on Earthhe would dare try to intimidate _my_ staff in _my_ mansion, go behind _my_ back. I questioned him, interrogated him, even. Both him _and_ his son. I demanded to know why he would dare try to coerce my own people to feed him dirt, dirt on my own kin—and do you know what he told me, Brittany?"

"I don't…"

"He said he never spoke to you. Never said a _word_ to you, or _anyone_ for that matter."

"But he was lying—"

"No, _you're_ lying to me!" She snapped, smacking the desk, making Brittany jump. She stood. "You lied to me that day, and you're lying to me again!"

"Sylvia, I swear I'm not!" Brittany squeaked, raising her hands in front of her, frightened. "I swear! You can't honestly believe that I'd turn against you—not me!"

"Not you? You listened to every conversation I had with the Head of the Five Families, with Tommy Bones, with the Duke—you knew everything I did and everywhere I went. When you told me Anderson intimidated you, I believed you. I believed you, did I not!"

"Yes, you did!" She whimpered, shrinking in her seat as Sylvia rounded the desk.

"So why did he tell me that he never talked to you? Why did you _lie_ to me! And why are you lying to me now? You were in my office—twice! Twice! What's your excuse this time? Huh!"

"Drake Anderson!"

Sylvia stared at her: " _What_?"

"Drake!" Brittany cried; tears started running down her cheeks. "He made me do it! Last time….and-and this time!"

Sylvia stared at her, still. Unblinking. In such a way that the longer she did, Brittany was starting to tremble under her gaze.

"Drake Anderson? Drake Anderson told you to come into my office, to steal the file on my brother, to find any dirt or blackmail or leverage on me? _He_ told you?" Sylvia questioned, unconvinced.

Brittany nodded vigorously, "Yes! He did! I'm sorry!"

Sylvia sat on the edge of her desk.

"You know…Drake was a bad seed. A spoiled child. Cunting dick. I could believe that he'd be capable of that sort of thing, of terrible things." She touched Brittany's wet cheek. "And you, my dear, are so easily influenced, so easily manipulated….coerced to do his bidding. How terrible it must have been for you…."

Brittany was lulled into a sense of comfort.

That was until Sylvia tightened her grip on the woman's jaw and Brittany winced with pain.

"I could believe that," Sylvia hissed, "if Drake Anderson was still _alive_."

Brittany's eyes widened.

"I killed him," She whispered. "He's dead. Been dead for a few weeks now. He went behind my back for the last time—I shot him in the knee then I smashed his face with a cinder block until he was unrecognizable beyond even his father's comprehension." She shoved Brittany away from her, so hard that the woman nearly fell off her own chair. "There's no way Drake Anderson got to you before he died—or _after._ "

Brittany bit her lip and said firmly, "I swear to you, Miss Sylvia…I swear, I've…I'm not…."

She put her cigarette out in the marble ash tray on her desk, ignoring Brittany's tears and cries. Instead, she looked at her with an expression of detachment.

"You helped me run my club," Sylvia said quietly, looking at her hands with sentiment. "You were a shoulder to cry on, and you never gave me any sort of trouble. You were the last person I thought that would ever go behind my back, Brit. I could forget the fact that you tried using my own kin against me, to blackmail me or do whatever you had intended to do. What I find truly abhorrent is that you lied to me…. _to my face_. The least you could have done is told me the truth."

"Sylvia…."

"Why did you stray?" She asked, looking at her sadly. "What pushed you? And please…Please, don't lie to me. Tell me the truth."

"It's like you said," Brittany whimpered, holding up a hand in front of her as though it might deflect any sort of violence that Sylvia had locked away just for her. "It's like you said…you never gave me any credit."

"The sad part is that I know what that feels like, and I know what it looks like. I should have seen it coming, honestly. You and your ambition, your lies and manipulation. Hell, I'm married to a man who was just in the same boat as you…"

"Ma'am, I'll do anything…anything to make it up to you. Please, please…forgive me."

"I could let you live…But what would stop you from betraying me again? You were ready to use my brother—for what intentions or your purposes, I could only scarcely imagine. And you'd probably get away with that. But what would stop you from going further, hmm? Would you hurt me? Or perhaps do something worse? Would you harm my husband?"

Brittany whispered, "Please…Have mercy. Please…please, Sylvia, forgive me. Please, forgive me, I'm _begging_ you."

Sylvia leaned back, took out the Glock that was taped under her desk and then shot Brittany in the head. Blood slowly oozed from the hole; and the woman fell over as though in slow motion. Sylvia watched the chair crash to the ground, along with the dead body.

"Sorry, Darling. I really didn't want to do that, but it had to be done. Besides, we both know what would happen. You'd go after my family, probably endanger them, kill them….and I can't have that." Sylvia uttered.

She stooped down, and brushed Brittany's bloody bangs from her forehead, kissing it.

The pounding of footsteps up the stairs; following that, Dagger busted the door down. Sylvia looked up at him, disappointedly.

"I _just_ had that fucking thing replaced!" Sylvia exclaimed.

"Whoa…!" Dagger glanced at Brittany's corpse. "Uh…should I leave?"

"Nah. Take her." Sylvia said, standing. "She's ruining my carpet."

"What happened?"

"I shot her."

"I figured that. I mean, why?"

"She was the mole."

" _Her_?"

"Yeah. Admittedly, I was a little surprised too."

"Did she say why?"

"She felt underappreciated." Sylvia muttered, disgruntled. "Lord knows we've all been there. I've done my utmost best to make people feel appreciated—between dealing with Jim's shit and his imprisonment, dealing with Galavan and Butch, and the usual ramblings and complaints of the other Families, I doubt there was more that I could have done."

Her nose curled as Dagger picked Brittany up and threw her over his shoulder.

"Nothing else to that?"

"What else is there to it? She lied. I caught her. She was guilty; I killed her. Simple as that."

"Anything you wanna tell Delilah?" Dagger asked. "They were kind of close."

"If she wants to avenge her snake friend, I'll be more than happy to indulge." Sylvia quipped, sitting back at her desk. "Other than that, nothing else to tell."

"Do you need someone to take over the business?"

"Are you putting in your application?"

"No. It's just that Delilah seemed interested."

"I'll talk to her."

"Sure thing, Boss." Dagger said, nodding obediently. He carried Brittany out the door and closed it on the exit.


	17. Release

Chapter Seventeen: Release

* * *

On the same night that Sylvia had killed Brittany, she went home. Not to the formerly one held by Falcone. But to the Van Dahl mansion, a place she knew she wouldn't have to look over her shoulder every ten minutes. Like before, the door wasn't locked, so she stepped inside, minding her surroundings.

Grace was still face-planted in the tray. Flies buzzed around and landed on her, their little insect-like hands rubbing together as though they were congratulating from one fly to another on the feast before them.

The candles on the table were lit, the wax dripping onto the wood itself. Aside from the roaring fireplace, the candlelight, and the sliver of moonlight creeping through the curtains, the mansion was otherwise dark. It was a little musty inside, but the dead body in the dining room was likely the source.

" _Oswald!"_

She looked around for him.

He was likely lurking in the shadows, waiting to see who had come into the mansion without precedence. She hadn't made it obvious that she was coming by; he wasn't expecting her until tomorrow, but after Brittany's betrayal, she just wanted to see a friendly face.

She removed the fresh wax from the dining table after retrieving a knee-high garbage can from the kitchen, wiping the remnants of the candles into it. After that, she proceeded to do a little bit of a clean-up, taking the dishes from the dining room and piling them into the sink; after starting the pipes, Sylvia was relieved to know that there was running water.

Oswald wasn't rummaging around in his own filth, at least. Now, _that_ was something to be relieved about! Grace's dead body was slowly decaying, and the decomposition and its odor was nauseating; Grace was that healthy dose of reality, the kind that Oswald needed in order to come to terms with the fact that this new family of his had been just as decrepit as Sylvia had tried to get him to believe.

But there needed to be a time when Grace could leave the mansion, and go somewhere else to decay, surely!

Sylvia continued to clean, gathering the supplies from underneath the sink: an array of cleaning utensils to include a scrub brush, mop head, bleach, (Gonna need lots and lots of bleach, she thought), Windex….the cabinet was a janitor's fantastical dream!

An hour went by, and the mansion had the fragrance of ammonia and bleach, while still maintaining the smell of a dead person. An interesting combination—not one that Sylvia would recommend for remodeling a mansion back to its original antiquity…but it was a lot better than its predecessor.

The floors were shiny if they were tile, and free from lint or blood, if it was carpet.

Now all that was left was Grace.

"What do you with you, Madame," She mumbled as she poked Grace's shoulder. "You're an eye-sore, you know that?" Sylvia took the woman by the hair of her bun and, like a puppeteer, Sylvia made Grace nod her head. "Yes, you know that. At least we finally found something we can agree on."

Chuckling at the macabre marionette, Sylvia rolled her eyes and let Grace's head fall back on the platter. At the intrusion, the flies suddenly flew away but once the disturbance had mitigated, they swarmed back to their original positions.

"I need to get rid of this thing."

She moved to the kitchen, and proceeded to wash the dishes. The running water was the only sound she heard, and somehow, that was enough to calm her mind. In this mansion, she needn't worry of the club's finances; her brother's incarceration; the management role that she was insistent to keep but would otherwise have thrown away in a minute after realizing the magnitude of the stress it would impact on her.

Selfishly, she'd come to the mansion, hoping that she could convince Oz to come back to work, to get his life back where Hugo Strange had nearly thrown it away. And another part of her desired to be with him. That part, Sylvia was certain had brought her to him a day earlier.

The shuffling of his familiar footsteps prompted her to glance over her shoulder to see Oswald walking into the kitchen, watching her with a surprised expression. It was clearly written on his face that he'd realized she was here after moving through the dining and living rooms, noticing how clean they'd become in his absence.

Seeing her, Oswald smiled.

"You're a day early."

"I'd have called."

"Why didn't you?"

Sylvia shrugged, responding with the gesture alone.

Wordlessly, Oswald moved closer to her, wrapping his arms around her, his fingers interlacing together over her belly button. His soft exhale of contentment tickled the hairs on the back of her neck, and Sylvia shuddered with an inward delight when he kissed the skin beneath her left earlobe.

"Are you feeling all right, dear?"

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You're tense."

"Has it not crossed your brilliant mind, yet, that _you_ cause that tension?" Sylvia questioned coyly, turning her head just a few centimeters so her eyes met his.

"I may have caused a little," Oswald returned, a small sly little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "but I'm not the reason for it up here." He lifted one hand from her stomach in favor of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair to massage her scalp. "Or here…." He kissed her neck once more, and she stifled a moan.

Sylvia continued washing dishes, subconsciously soaking the china-made plates but her mind was starting to wander.

His hands returned back to the front of her stomach; the side of his thumbs lifted to stroke her rib cage.

"You're distracted."

"Yeah…Well, I just…"

He kissed her cheek.

"Things have happened," She admitted. "Not all of it has been life-threatening, but it's becoming a lot more than I can handle. To be perfectly honest, I feel like I'm losing control of the situation."

His languid movements of turning her on trailed away, once he sensed there was more to her visit than the underlying sexual frustration that both of them felt while they were separated. In distance, only, really. His hands moved past her, taking hers away from the dishes, prompting her to turn around. Slowly, she did, noticing just how close he was to her when their lips touched briefly in a tender kiss.

Whether that had been intentional or the other, Sylvia didn't care. It made her smile.

Oswald looked in a better state than when she had left him. His hair was in its normal do, his clothes were back to its usual flair, and he wasn't covered in blood anymore. The concern alight in his eyes was stronger, seeing that Sylvia's spark was flickering in the midst of all that had happened.

"Come with me."

She followed him into the living room where he gestured for her to sit down on the couch. She did and he joined her shortly after. She snuggled closer to him; when she did, Oswald's smile returned.

"Tell me what happened."

"I killed Brittany."

He looked a little surprised by Sylvia's blunt honesty, but he asked lightly, "Why?"

"She went behind my back. Tried to use my brother as leverage."

"That's not the first person to do that."

"And it won't be the last, I know. But she's the last person I thought that would do it. And who's to say that she would have stopped there? She'd have gone further, probably. And use you. I couldn't have that." She explained, her voice darkening as she did. "I shot her in the head; Dagger's burying her right now, actually."

"You killed her today?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you came a day early?"

"It's not just that," Sylvia told him, sitting up and away from him. At the sudden break of intimacy, Oswald looked at her, taken aback. She put her hand on his thigh, squeezing gently.

"I need you to come back. I've held up my part for as long as I can. I can manage things for a while, sure, but I _need_ you to come back."

"No one has helped you?"

"Everyone has helped me," She said dismissively. "My people—aside from Brittany, of course—have done everything they can to run things smoother for me, but they're not _you_ , Oz. I can't keep running things by myself, you know. I wasn't meant to do it by myself—and I…I'm just so _tired_ all the fucking time. I can't sleep, and I'm falling apart."

The desperation in her eyes, her voice cracking as she spilled all of her inner workings to him. Oswald didn't realize just how much she needed him…sure, he had an idea…but this was a little more than what he'd been prepared to handle. He pulled her to him so he cradled her head against his chest, not unlike how he'd comforted his mother when Maroni had poured all of his dark secrets onto the table.

Sylvia didn't cry. Not this time. But she was on the brink of it.

"Don't worry, Pigeon." Oswald whispered. "Shhh…."

She nuzzled his neck; her soft whimpers muffled against his skin, "I thought I could do it alone, but I can't…."

"Shhhh…." He hushed her in a soft, comforting voice.

Sylvia's arms wrapped around his middle, getting closer to him.

For a while, no one spoke.

Seeing her in such distress, Oswald was certain that if he didn't step in, she'd likely break apart in front of him. As much as he had enjoyed the time away from the managerial position, it was time he was pulled back into the swing of things. With his father's death, and the murders he committed, Oswald reckoned he'd basked enough time in grief and vengeance. He could dismiss pleas and cries from people, pretend they weren't human beings and just go on with business like the norm, but Sylvia was different.

Seeing her cry, listening to her desperate pleas—Oswald couldn't ignore that. And he wouldn't.

"Is Brittany the only one?" He asked lightly.

Sylvia lifted her head to meet his gaze.

"Only one what?"

"Was she only the traitor?"

"I was sure that there was only one mole."

"If there's one, there's always another. Who was she working for?"

"She was an entrepreneur. I don't think she was in it for anyone else but herself."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Well, she's dead, Oz. I sure hope that I was certain. Unless you have an ability to communicate with the dead that I don't know about, there's no way of asking Brittany anything else."

"Perhaps she was working with Miss Galavan and Butch…." Oswald brainstormed quietly.

"I doubt it. They wouldn't give her the time of day."

"Not in the open, anyway."

"Not at _all_ , Oz. She was ditsy. Tabitha wouldn't look twice at her. Butch wouldn't either."

"You sound confident about that."

"That's because I am."

Oswald smiled as she sat up, but didn't break their intimacy. In fact, she had sobered up from falling to pieces in his arms and lifted a leg over his lap so she straddled him.

"And, how _are_ they?" Oswald questioned, looking up at her. "Have they behaved?"

"Like children, they've acted out, but no more than usual." Sylvia informed, smirking at him. "Sometimes, all children need is a little discipline. A gun here, a threat there…." She nipped Oswald's chin with a small nibble, adding, "And a little spanking from time to time."

"I can't tell if you're being serious or you're using a double entendre," He admitted, but smiling up at her, regardless.

"I'm speaking metaphorically. Well, the spankings are metaphors, but I _did_ threaten them with a gun."

"You have an impressive way of dealing with the rabble."

"I learned from the best."

"Mmm. Learned a few things, have you?"

"I've learned a lot more from you than you could possibly imagine." Sylvia reassured. "After all, you've been an excellent mentor."

"Is that why you married me?"

"Well, that, and your brilliant mind."

"Flattery will get you places."

"Flattery has gotten you _in_ some places," Sylvia reminded, smirking at him. She wiggled her bottom on his lap, adding, "I could think of one I'd like you to revisit."

"Now I know _that_ is not a metaphor."

What had become a visit for consolation and venting soon become one of cashing in nights of sexual frustration. Breathless and satisfied, a naked Sylvia lied on top of Oswald, who mirrored her in the same lack of attire. Distractedly, she traced invisible, geometrically distorted images on his chest with her index finger while Oswald held her in his arms, content as ever.

"You are a very impressive woman, Pigeon."

He spoke so suddenly, his voice was hoarse, but soft-spoken.

Sylvia glanced up at him.

"Well, I tried a few new things; I'm so glad you approved."

Oswald's eyebrows raised in surprise, and realizing her meaning, he laughed quietly, "I wasn't talking about the sex…but it was amazing as always. Where did you learn those...?"

"Darling," Sylvia sighed, smirking up at him. "While you've been gone, I've had to entertain myself in more ways than one. It's amazing what you can learn just by watching porn. And in the mansion, there's such great picture and clarity—comes out clear as a bell!"

Oswald blushed: "You've been watching—"

"Porn, yes." She kissed his neck. "But nothing is like the real thing, baby."

At her praise, Oswald's whole body seemed to turn a shade a pink, bringing out the adorable freckles on his face and shoulders. As fun as it was seeing him get all flustered by hearing her words of approval, Sylvia attempted to allow his modesty to subside and she moved the topic to something else.

"You said I'm an impressive woman?" She encouraged.

"Yes." He looked at her plainly. "You've done a lot more for me than I could have ever expected."

"Cleaning the mansion wasn't that hard."

"I'm not talking about that."

"Running an empire alone, you mean?"

"In my defense—"

"Oz, you don't have to apologize. Strange messed with your mind. And I know it wasn't you that broke up with me. So, you don't have to keep saying you're sorry."

"I _know_ that. But that doesn't keep me from feeling the way that I do."

"And what way is that?"

"Guilty."

Sylvia blinked, and she sat up. He did too, following her mannerism, although he appeared disheartened by her reaction.

"Guilt is normal," Sylvia reassured. "But I've forgiven you multiple times. I've told you…."

"Yes, you've told me." He emphasized. "But my behavior was inexcusable."

"Can we talk about this—"

"I don't want to talk about it another time."

"I'm not disagreeing about the timing." Sylvia said firmly. "But if you don't mind, I'd rather discuss serious matters such as this while wearing clothes."

"Oh…." He glanced down at himself to realize that he was still naked. "You…yes, you make a fair point."

After he and Sylvia were dressed, Sylvia sashed her robe and looked at him plainly. They stood in the living room. Good of a place as any to discuss current emotions.

"Why do you feel guilty?" She asked.

"How could I not?"

"Well, that's why I'm asking."

Oswald gave her a look.

"What I said to you, how I treated you after being released from Arkham...that has stayed with me. After all I had done, I couldn't bring myself to look past all your faults—"

"—You mean, the fact that I murdered people—"

"—Yes, Pigeon, _that_."

"Strange _brainwashed_ you."

"That's not an excuse. I was pretending that I had moved on, that I was no longer the man I am now. I couldn't see that side of you. I was…." Oswald paused, like speaking the words themselves was causing him a greater physical pain. "I was intolerant, and…I still can't believe what I was ready to throw away just on the principle."

He looked as though he might throw himself into the fireplace. Sylvia noticed how greatly this was affecting him; she took his hands and Oswald looked at her.

How the tables had turned in a day. She'd come to him in hopes that he would take control of the situation, to relieve her of all her stress and worries from the past few months, of all the trepidation she had encountered. And now, here he was—wanting her to do the same. Sylvia caressed his face between her palms, watching his eyes flicker and search her eyes.

"You love me, don't you?"

"Of _course,_ I do."

"And, as you stand, do you care that I've murdered people? Do you care that I have killed people both for myself as well as for you?"

"I don't care that you have."

"And despite knowing all that I have done to get this far, do you still love me?"

Oswald said quietly, "I'm more in love with you now than I have ever been."

""Then that's all that matters."

"But, Pigeon, look what could have happened if I never broke away from that curse!" He insisted, taking her hands and moving them from his face. "Look what needed to happen in order for me to see reason!"

"If Grace killing your dad didn't wake you up from your delusion, then I'd have found a way."

"You would have?"

"I would have," She reaffirmed. "I _know_ you, Oswald. I know what you've done, what you're doing, and what you're capable of. I know you better than anyone else in this entire world, and that includes your parents. If you think for a second that I'd have let you stay under Strange's hold, then you don't know me from atom."

Oswald nodded, seeing the truth before him.

" _You_ didn't break up with me." Sylvia said softly. " _You_ love me, no matter what I have done in the past. If our roles were reversed, and Strange had me under that same goddamn brainwashing delusion, I'm sure you'd have found a way to wake me up too."

" _Without_ hesitation." Oswald reassured. Just the idea of Strange even touching Sylvia brought out the possessive edge in his tone.

Sylvia leaned into him, kissing his bottom lip; his eyes closed, treasuring that tender kiss. When it naturally broke, he smiled at her.

"No more guilt." She whispered. "No more thoughts of 'what if'. You love me. I love you. And that's all there is to it."

"Well, that's not all."

"Pardon?"

"Give me a few days. I'll hire Olga back…."

"Who?"

"The maid."

"Oh."

"And once this place is back to normal—well, as normal as it can be—I'll come back," Oswald promised, taking Sylvia's hands in his. "You won't have to run the empire alone anymore."

She smiled at him: "Did Olga work for Grace?"

"Yes."

"Did she like her?"

"Not at all."

"Good," Sylvia returned. "Then Olga and I will get along swimmingly. Don't take long, baby." She kissed Oswald again. "If I have to keep meeting with the Heads of the Five Families, I'm gonna scream. There's nothing worse than hearing a bunch of old guys whining and starting every fucking conversation with 'back in my day'…it's unnerving."

"Now you know how _I_ feel." Oswald said, rolling his eyes.

* * *

Knowing that she wouldn't have to keep a level head on her shoulders for much longer was a godsend. She'd exercised a great deal of control: not shooting every son-of-a-bitch who'd tried to contest her authority (Tabitha and Butch); giving people ample opportunity of prove themselves capable of handling a few tasks without much supervision (Dagger and Chilly); and even giving people a benefit of doubt, despite the fact that she'd ended up killing them either way (Drake Anderson, Brittany).

Sylvia missed the days when she could arbitrarily offer to kill someone just because she was in the mood, to torture anyone for information that Oswald wanted and then get the 'good girl' treatment and praise she deserved. Instead, all this time, she had to act like that goddamn parent, setting that prime example of good leadership.

Not that it didn't have its perks. Since her acting the role of queen, many of Oswald's men as well as her own had declared their undying loyalty, even the Heads of the Five Families (to include the Maronis and Belichs) had shown their gratitude for her informality. Whereas Oswald owned that separation of the classes, preferring professionalism over casual banter, Sylvia operated a little easily when things were just informal.

Even then, people were holding doors open for her, making sure that she was happy. Even if she wasn't in the best mood, there was an unspoken respect.

Floating on good luck, Sylvia decided to make a trip to the prison. She'd talk to her brother, have a nice laugh—who knows, maybe his being in prison had given him a new perspective as to why she behaved the way she did.

She'd never been to Black Gate. But she _had_ been in a few prisons where things weren't always black and white. You had to join a gang, and threaten other gangs, to prove yourself in any case you wanted to sleep another night and not wake up with a shank to your throat. It was why she was so aggressive in the beginning, but now, there was no excuse for her personality quirks other than the fact that Sylvia loved a good fight.

So did Jim.

"My name is Sylvia Cobblepot. I'm here to see my brother, James Gordon."

She spoke to an entry man; he was a correctional officer, dressed in that garb that read 'I know my shit, don't mess with me'. Badges adorned his uniform, and his rank was higher than any of that Sylvia had seen. She'd figured he knew better than anyone who her brother was. No doubt, he might have started a few fights of his own, just to get his point across that he wasn't messing around.

Then again, learning that his unborn child had been miscarried might have put a different fire in his belly. To her knowledge, Sylvia was certain he had found out. News like that never went unspoken. Perhaps Harvey Bullock had made a visit to him, told him what Sylvia didn't have the heart to tell him.

"James Gordon isn't here anymore." The guardsman said sternly.

Sylvia cocked her head to the side and said with a politely forced tone, "Excuse me?"

"I said—"

"I _know_ what you said," Sylvia said harshly, glaring at him. "What the hell do you mean he's not here anymore. Of course, he's here. He was sentenced here. He's _been_ here. You're telling me he's not?"

"You're talking about Detective James Gordon." He wanted to clarify.

"Yes."

"The man escaped."

"Excuse me?"

"He ran away."

"I know what 'escaped' means," Sylvia retorted hotly. "What the hell do you mean he 'escaped'? He's not here?"

"That's what I said, ma'am. He's not here."

"So, where the fuck is he?"

"We don't know."

"You don't know?" Sylvia repeated, unconvinced. "You don't know where your own man is?"

"I'm sorry if you had to hear it from me, but he _isn't_ here. He escaped." The guard explained; the man was attempting to keep his voice fairly calm and polite, but clearly unable to hide his irritation.

"And you have no idea where he might have gone?"

"Can't say I do."

"Are you going to try and find him?"

"Doubtful."

"Why is that?"

"He's not a prisoner anymore."

"I know he's not, you moron. You just told me that he escaped."

"He's not in _our_ custody anymore, woman," snapped the guard, glaring at her. "He's not a prisoner. Not anymore. He escaped, but his charges were fucking _dropped_."

Sylvia crossed her arms: "Well, excuse _me_ for not understanding. If your explanation skills were as good as your mannerisms are terrible, I'm sure I'd have understood the first time. Why were they dropped?"

"We don't know," said the guard, thumbing behind him to the men around him. "We were told to stop pursuing the matter. So we stopped."

"And you didn't bother finding out why?"

"Woman, we don't care about 'why'. There are plenty other prisoners we gotta babysit and your goddamn brother is the last of my priorities. The man was a troublemaker; then again, I can't really say I blame the guy—the warden was after him."

"The warden?"

"He had it in for him."

"Why?"

"Goddamn, woman, you ask a lot of questions. Just be happy your brother is a free man."

"Do you know where he's staying?"

"No. And I don't care to know."

Sylvia rolled her eyes and said sarcastically, "Thank you for your cooperation. You've been _very_ helpful." She walked away, muttering, "Putz."

Her first stop would be Harvey Bullock's place. Whether Jim escaped or was released or had his charges dropped—let's be honest, Sylvia couldn't understand how any of those things could have happened or when they did—Harvey would know where Jim was. As tight knit as they were like brothers, Harvey Bullock would know the truth.


	18. Catching Up

Chapter Eighteen: Catching Up

* * *

"Harvey!" Sylvia shouted, rapping on the detective's door. "HARVEY BULLOCK!"

Aside from herself, there was no one else in the hallway. Perhaps that was for the best.

"HARVEY!" She continued to bellow. "HARVEY! OPEN THE DOOR! I have to talk to y—"

The door flew open.

Jim, dressed in black sweats with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stared at her incredulously from behind the threshold.

"Vee!" He said sternly. "What the hell are you doing!"

"J-Jim…." Sylvia gasped, dropping her purse on the floor. She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle and pulling him into a strong, bear hug. "Oh my god, it's true!"

"Vee…." Jim managed through the strangled voice. "Vee…you're…I can't… _breathe_!"

"Oh, fuck, sorry!"

Once she let him go, Jim scrambled to the door frame, pulling himself back to his full height as he placed a hand over his stomach where she'd hugged him as tight as a python. Relieved to see that she was in higher spirits, Jim encouraged her to come in quickly; she picked up her purse, did as he asked; after, he closed the door.

"The guard said you escaped."

Sylvia dropped her purse on the nearest end table, looking at him.

"That was true."

"And that the charges were dropped?"

"Also, true."

"How did they find out it wasn't you?" Sylvia asked, staring at him with an unsettled shock. "The evidence—Galavan and Pinkney's deaths—I thought…." She gesticulated her disbelief. "Jim, how did you get out of the prison, how did you….why didn't you tell me when….where have you been all this time? Have you been here? Why…."

Jim chuckled, "I've never seen you so speechless."

"I'm just shocked, but in a good way."

"Well, a first for everything."

Sylvia sat on the edge of the love seat provided in Harvey's apartment.

"I'm sorry, I just can't believe it. I mean, you never came to me, or said anything or…."

"I had to get my life back before I dragged you into it again." Jim explained, sitting beside her. "It wasn't easy."

"I figured it wasn't. How'd you get out?"

"Well, you won't believe me."

"I've been through a lot of crap. Try me."

"Falcone."

" _Falcone_? What about Falcone?"

"Harvey went to Falcone, and together, they created a way for me to escape. After, I went digging."

"Falcone helped you? Good man, I'd say. I should write him a thank-you letter. You went digging—I wouldn't expect anything less from you. To find out who framed you, yes. I figured you would. What did you find out?"

"It was Edward Nygma."

Sylvia blinked. Then she stared. And her eyes narrowed.

" _The_ Ed Nygma?"

"Yes."

"Forensics Guy Edward Nygma."

"Yes, Vee."

" _He_ framed you?"

"Yes."

"And…Wow, I…" Sylvia stuttered and she slowly stood, while Jim held out his hands cautiously. "Pinkney's death—"

"Yes."

"—That anonymous tip to Internal Affairs—"

"—That was him too—"

Sylvia blinked several times.

"All of that was him?"

"Yes—Vee, I know what this must feel like," Jim warned. "But you can't do anything right now."

Sylvia stared at him before she spoke dangerously, "I _trusted_ him, Jim. I trusted him—he was my friend—and he _frames_ you for a crime **I** committed!" She kicked the loveseat. "THIS IS UNFUCKING BELIEVABLE!"

"Sylvia, calm down—I know that look—"

"I'M GOING TO KILL HIM!" She started towards the door, but Jim beat her to it, standing in her way. "GET OUT OF MY WAY, JIM!"

"Will you stop for a second!" Jim growled, grabbing his sister's shoulders and pushing her away from the door. "You're angry—"

"I'm passed 'angry', Jim, I'm fucking pissed! He lied _to my face_ , and said he didn't know who could have possibly done this to you, who was _responsible_ for ruining your life…."

"My life isn't ruined."

"Well, it's not been a picnic since you were arrested, _has_ it?"

"I understand why you're angry—better than anyone."

"Oh, do you?"

"Yes. But you can't kill him," Jim said carefully. "Even if you wanted to."

"You'd stop me?"

"Well, yes, but there's more to it. He's in Arkham."

Sylvia's anger extinguished.

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. With framing me," Jim explained, "and Kristen's body, Officer Dougherty, all of them, he was declared insane and he's been in Arkham ever since."

She looked at him strangely.

"I suppose that's good."

"It's enough. What matters now is that I'm a free man."

Sylvia allowed herself to mirror the same small smile, although her glee sobered as she asked, "Did you find Lee?"

"I called her. Barnes gave me her number."

"And?"

"I couldn't." Jim admitted.

"Why?"

"Well…you know about the baby?"

"I do….and I'm sorry I didn't tell you." Sylvia apologized as Jim sat next to her. "You know why I couldn't."

"I do, and it's okay. Harvey told me."

"I'm sorry, Jimmy."

"It's probably for the best, to be honest," He conceded, albeit sadly. "Prison life…Not the best for rearing a child."

"Still, maybe you and Lee can patch things up. Now that you're out."

"Not likely."

"Why?"

"I called her."

"And?"

"And nothing," Jim said, looking at her sadly. "After everything I put her through, I couldn't do it. I can't talk to her. I told her to move on. I told her to forget me. How can she do those things if I just call her up, randomly in the middle of the night, and tell her that I've been freed?"

"She'd probably be happy." Sylvia said, patting his wrist. "She'd be happy. She loves you."

"Maybe. But it'll have to wait."

"Why?"

"I made a promise."

"Oh god, you and your promises," Sylvia sighed, standing. She turned to him. "What promise did you make and to whom?"

"The same one that I made a long time ago."

"To the Wayne kid?"

"Yes."

"That case was closed."

"The murderer is still out there."

"And the case is _still_ closed," Sylvia reminded sternly. "You can't find him if the case is closed. You're a cop."

"Not officially."

"What do you mean by that? You're not going back?"

"Barnes offered me my job back. I said 'no'."

"You said 'no'?" scoffed Sylvia. "I have a hard time believing that."

"Well, believe it, Vee. Because as long as I wear the badge, I can't do things my way."

"And what exactly is 'your' way? Your way has always been the cop way."

Jim shrugged and chuckled, "So it's not my way. I guess I'll be doing things _your_ way."

Sylvia lifted her head a little and said coyly, "Don't tell me you've started leaning towards my line of work."

"Not at all. Malone was working for someone—"

"—Who—"

"—Matches Malone."

"Who uses a name like 'Matches'? Was he a fire bug?"

"He killed the Waynes."

"So, I'm guess that's a 'no' since the Waynes were shot in an alley. And, you _know_ who the murderer is," Sylvia said, gesturing to him. "Good job, done deal. So if you know who the prick was that basically wreaked havoc on Gotham, what promise is there left to keep?"

"He killed the Waynes, but he isn't the one responsible."

"He held the gun."

"Right."

"So that makes him responsible."

"He isn't the one that gave the order."

"So him and the person that did give the order are _both_ responsible. The one that took Bruce's parents away from him is the most responsible. Isn't that who you swore to find?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He's dead."

"See, that's reassuring." Sylvia, rolling her eyes. "Ergo, my question still stands. What promise is there left for you to make?"

"I don't just want the person that murdered the Waynes. I want to know why he did it."

"Are you sure this is about keeping a promise to a billionaire, or is this is your way of not confronting Lee about how you really fucking feel? Because I'm getting a feeling it's the last one."

"No. I want to know why he did what he did."

"That seems like an in-your-face kind of irony, don't you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"The person that gave the order hired him, paid him. That's why Malone killed them." Sylvia said carelessly, walking to the refrigerator in the kitchen section as she opened the door lazily. "Simple as that, Jim. Just because some assassin pricks your conscience and do-right diligence doesn't mean the rest of the world wants you to be their savior. Does Harvey _live_ on beer? That's all he has in here."

Jim sighed irritably and walked to the kitchen, closing the refrigerator to divert Sylvia's attention back to him, saying, "It's not that simple."

"It never is with you, is it?" Sylvia said, glancing at Jim then opening the door once more to observe the contents within the fridge (or rather, lack of.).

"Someone _hired_ Malone. Someone wanted to kill the Waynes. I want to know who. I want to know why."

"The Waynes were a symbol of hope and prosperity. They were also two stupid motherfuckers who walked out in an alley in the middle of the night decked out in fancy suits and dresses and neither of them bothered to carry a fucking gun." Sylvia said pointedly, earning a stern look from her brother. "Between Matches Malone who got paid to take them out, the person who gave the order getting off on someone killing two billionaires in an alley, and the aforementioned billionaire parents' ignorance for placing themselves in a fucked up situation to begin with, I really have a hard time deciding who is more at fault. The only victim I see is Bruce Wayne, who didn't know any fucking better."

"I need to know." Jim said exasperatedly.

"You'd have more resources if you joined the GCPD."

"Then I would have Barnes looking over my shoulder."

" _Someone_ needs to keep you out of trouble," Sylvia teased.

"I'd have more resources if you joined me on this."

She closed the refrigerator door.

"Impossible."

"Why is it impossible?" Jim asked, confused.

"You want _me_ to come with you on this quest to find out who ordered the Waynes to be killed," Sylvia said lightly. "That requires a lot of work. Particularly on _my_ end."

"I'd do most of the work…."

"Well, that's easy for you to say right now. You're unemployed. I, on the other hand, have a city to run and people to keep in line."

"You're telling me 'no'," said Jim unhappily, his eager smile falling to the way side.

"Not really. But in the time span that you've been gone, I've had to do things differently."

"What's different between then and the present?"

"For one: I have rules I've gotta keep."

"Oh, come on. You have rules?" Jim snickered. "That's nothing like you."

"I've had to change my way of doing things since Oswald was committed," Sylvia said darkly. "I've had to develop a new managerial style—and, by the way, it has helped me deal with a few belligerent grievances. You want to go interrogate every Harry, Dick, and Moe that has set himself against you, but I still have an empire to run. Until Oswald comes back, I have to maintain _some_ type of control; going on a man-hunt with you will impede on my progress."

"So, in essence," Jim said dryly, "You're asking 'what's in it for you'. That's what you're telling me?"

"'In essence'," Sylvia quoted smartly, "Yes, I am."

Jim leaned against the fridge, saying carefully, "What the hell happened to you while I was away?"

"I've had plenty to deal with."

"A few rough characters?"

"If you only knew," She said nonchalantly, searching through the cabinets above the sink. "Oh look, he has cereal."

She took down a box of Frosted Shredded Wheat and a bowl. Wordlessly, Jim reached into the fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk, setting it on the counter beside her.

"Thanks."

"Check the expiration date on that before you drink any of it," Jim warned.

Sylvia glanced at the date and then smiled, "Still good for another two weeks."

Jim rolled his eyes at her playful attitude. As she poured herself a bowl, she offered him some. He declined. Sylvia hoisted herself on the counter, dug her hand into the drawer nearest to her feet and found a silver spoon, using it to eat her cereal.

"What did you mean by that?" Jim asked.

"Mean, by what?"

"You said you 'had plenty to deal with'."

"Nothing big. Simple things, you know, such as nearly reaching financial ruin, betrayal, that sort of thing."

Jim knitted his eyebrows together with concern: "Betrayal?"

"I found Brittany in my office again. Unattended." Sylvia specified. "She was going behind my back, forming alliances—I caught her trying to get that file on you again."

"What did you do?"

"Well, after a calm interrogation, I shot her in the head."

"Jesus, Vee!"

"That was last night," Sylvia said dismissively. "I found out from a guard that _you_ were let out, and from you, I find out that _Ed_ has betrayed me as well. Like I said: 'betrayal, that sort of thing'."

"Forget the fact that you just confessed to murder—"

"—You're not a cop, remember?"

"Regardless…Ed framed _me_."

"You're my brother," Sylvia said pointedly. "What he's done to you, he might as well have done to me too. I take it as personal offense that he did all that to you and still pretended to be my friend, comforting me at all hours of the day, telling me that the man who framed you will surely be found. He lied to my goddamn face, and I didn't fucking see it." She cringed. "I might just be losing my touch."

Jim said calmly, "I didn't know it was him either, not at first. I wouldn't feel too bent out of shape about it."

"You can make light of it all you want. _I_ still have every intention of confronting him about it."

She put another spoonful of cereal in her mouth and smiled suddenly: "This shredded wheat is really hitting the spot."

"You won't reconsider?" Jim offered. "I'd like to have a dependable person on my side."

" _Harvey's_ dependable, right?"

" _He's_ part of the GCPD."

"Which makes him unreliable, then?"

"That's what you've been saying about the police in Gotham."

"And you're seeing that I am right after all these years."

"I can't operate without people telling me where the lines are and whether or not I'll be crossing them."

"Mmm, now you're starting to sound like me," Sylvia chuckled, winking at him. "Who're you trying to find anyway, if not Malone?"

"Someone higher than him."

"What I mean is do you have any leads—I'm not going on a wild goose chase, you know."

Jim quirked an eyebrow, saying, "So, you _are_ thinking of helping me?"

"If you know where to go and where to start, I'm listening. If you're going on a wild goose chase, I'm not game. I don't like geese."

"Just penguins?"

Sylvia smirked, "All day, every day."

Jim winced when his tease backfired on him.

"If you have some idea of where to start, I can likely lend a hand," She said seriously. "I may not be able to step away from my desk all the time, but contrary to what I may stand for, I _do_ feel pity for the little Wayne boy. A kid like that sees his parents shot dead in front of him? There's no justification for that kind of mess. Not even in _my_ eyes."

Jim walked over to the cabinet and from inside a cookie jar, he withdrew a picture, a mug shot. He held it out to Sylvia, who took it and gave it a once over.

"Who the fuck is this bitch?" Sylvia asked with a mouthful of cereal.

"They call her 'The Lady'."

"Mmm. She doesn't look impressive."

"It's not the same as being called 'The Lark' on the streets," Jim said skeptically, "but that's her."

"Who the fuck is the Lark?"

"For someone who has every resource available to her, you don't listen to the word on the street, do you?"

"Stop fucking with me. Who's the Lark?"

Jim gestured to her: "You are."

"The fuck I am."

"Well, to put it in your words: You fucking are."

"What the hell is a lark?"

"Singer, dancer…some type of bird. How the hell am I supposed to know? That's what they call you on the streets. You're 'The Lark', _Penguin's_ songbird, to be more specific."

Sylvia rolled her eyes: "I love how they come up with these nicknames and _I_ am the last to know about it. Is it supposed to be offensive or something?"

"Well, it can't be worse than being called a 'penguin'." Jim muttered, putting the picture of 'The Lady' on the counter.

"So you want to get this lady, what's your plan for when you find her?" Sylvia asked, ignoring his comment.

"Put a gun to her throat and make her tell me who's behind the Wayne murders."

"Simple, sweet, to the point. That sounds more like your speed."

"It's basically all that I have."

"And what if she doesn't talk?"

"Oh, she _will_ talk." Jim said with a dangerous glint in his eye.

Sylvia placed her empty bowl in the sink, hopped off the counter, and smiled happily at him.

"See, hearing that tone of yours, I'm almost starting to like this side of you." Sylvia joked. "But this is child's play. Aside from putting a hit on the Waynes, what else has this woman done?"

"She killed a boy's parents. That's not enough?"

" _I_ have killed people's parents," Sylvia responded dryly.

"Vee…"

"I know, I know—more murder. What can you do?"

"Whose parents did you kill?"

"Well, they weren't billionaires, so the odds of them hiring a rambunctious detective-turned-bounty-hunter is pretty unlikely. I've also killed someone's fiance; you want to slam me for that one too?"

"He was abusive, and the fiance's bride-to-be _liked_ you for it. That's not the same thing."

Sylvia looked taken aback; Jim noticed it.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"That's the first time you've ever excused me from killing someone."

"Well, I talked to Tiffany Rubberdale," Jim said lightly, crossing his arms.

"Because of the Red Hood Gang giving her that fender bender and putting her in the hospital."

"Yeah."

"Oh…and what did she have to say?"

"She told me enough." Jim said coolly.

"Well, for what it's worth, I think it's sweet that you agree with me, but if you knew how the man died, you'd probably be less accepting. I can tell you how Burke Drifas died, but it ain't pretty."

"I don't want to know."

"Probably for the best."

"As for The Lady…"

"Like I said: 'child's play'," Sylvia continued as though she hadn't been interrupted. "If you want me to go hunt down a fart in the wind just because she paid a guy to kill people, I'll need more to go on. I have a club to run, and a _lot_ of people to keep under control. A distraction like this will keep me occupied, and if it's just a bitch doing what-have-you to only god-knows-who, I need more of an incentive."

Jim curled his upper lip.

"Is this what it's like to do business with you?"

"Not really. If you weren't my brother, I'd tell you to fuck off and that'd be the end of discussion." Sylvia replied honestly. "Any lackey that came to me with your sort of proposal would have been less than deserving of my time."

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"Not at all. It has saved me a great deal of time, energy, and effort. Plus, this woman loves her time and energy; I can put my effort into something else like romancing my husband. So, what else you got, Slim-Jim?"

"I thought you said you pitied Bruce Wayne."

"I do. But the time I'll invest in this woman-hunt, and the resources I'll pull from my ports can't be paid in pity."

"You're a tough negotiator."

"That, I am. So, what else do you got?"

"She's the same person that put a hit out on me." Jim informed. "Her A team came after me."

"Is she the same person that made that cannibal come after you?"

"The same person."

"What a fucking cunt," Sylvia uttered, making Jim startle. "You know what…." She wiped her hands on a hand towel. "Fuck it. Let's see what we can find. It's been a long time since I had any fun. I say 'let's do it'. We'll get the brother-sister team back on line, huh?"

"We'll wait for Harvey."

"Why wait? You've got me all jazzed up for a rumble and you're telling me to wait?" Sylvia said impatiently.

"He needs to know where we're going."

"Mm. He needs to know where _you're_ going. _I_ am not waiting around for anyone. I can get a few leads while you wait for your man-sitter to come around. If that makes you any happier."

"It'll only be a few more minutes."

"Where is Officer-No-Rules anyway?" Sylvia questioned lazily as she plopped back down on the love seat. "Wouldn't he be with 'Miss Thang'?"

"Who?"

"That girlfriend of his. What's her name…Scotty."

"They broke up."

"Wow. I could have seen _that_ coming from a mile away."

"It didn't shock him either."

"I bet it was because he became a cop again."

"That's the reason they broke up."

"Well, it's _her_ fault for falling for him," Sylvia reasoned. "She _knew_ he was a cop when they started dating. People don't stay away from the badge for far too long."

"Him and Scotty breaking up didn't surprise me. What surprises me is that you're still with Oswald Cobblepot—Strange let him out of Arkham for completing his rehabilitation. After hearing that, I was certain you two would be on the same path to splitting up."

"Oh, please," Sylvia scoffed, side-glancing her brother when he sat beside her. "If Fish Mooney or Falcone couldn't keep us apart, there was no way _Strange_ could. He's fucking smart, but he's not god—even if he was, _that_ wouldn't have changed things, either."

"How _is_ Oswald?" Jim asked. "The last time I saw him, he was drugged, playing duck-duck-goose behind a cage."

"He's doing better."

"Wanna tell me where he is?"

"Nope."

"I'm not a cop anymore."

"Again: Nope." Sylvia said, smiling at him. "He's been just fine without you or anyone else trying to get on his case. He's out of Arkham; he's a free man. Let him be."

"Has anyone told you how over-protective you are of him?"

"Just about everyone and their brother."

"Well, at least you know."

"I do know. Thanks. Have you talked to Barbara any? I heard she was let out."

"I did."

"And?"

"She said she loved me…."

"No surprise there."

"And she's sane."

"Per the Strange formula, I bet."

"And she asked if we could get back together." Jim said uncomfortably, looking at Sylvia with a secretive glance.

"And how'd that go?"

"I told her 'no'."

" _That's_ a pity."

"She tried to kill Lee. And I couldn't let that go. Even if Barbara _was_ sane."

"What happened after?"

Jim shrugged, "She left."

"She just 'left'?"

"Yep."

"No violent reaction?" Sylvia questioned. "No desperate pleas for attention, no signs of abandonment issues?"

"None that I witnessed."

"That's weird."

"No kidding."

"I bet you broke her beyond her own comprehension," Sylvia said knowingly.

"How do you get that?"

"Strange brainwashes people; he doesn't fix them. Especially if there's nothing to fix. Oswald was going through the same thing, but then he found himself all over again."

"You mean, he snapped out of it?" Jim clarified.

"Mm-hmm." Sylvia mused with a little impish smile. "It's quite enlightening, and reassuring. I'm pretty sure the same hold won't stand for long with Barbara. She's 'sane' today, but after her interaction with _you_ , your rejection of her might snap her out of it. It takes a bit of a traumatizing event to do it….did it with Oz, it'll do it with Babs."

"Do you think it was an act?"

"Her 'rehab' might be, but her feelings for you are genuine."

"You think I should have given her a chance?"

"Dude, if I was in your shoes, there would have been no way I could have said 'no' to those beautiful blues." Sylvia said, taking the remote from the coffee table in front of them and turning on the television. "You know, she told me once before that she had a thing for me. That if it wasn't for dating you first, she might have made a move on _me_."

Jim said darkly, "It's hard for me to find anyone who _isn't_ attracted to you."

"I know. It's like _everyone_ thinks I'm hot. I bet that's really irritating, isn't it?"

"Everyone seems to like you too."

"I'm a likeable person."

"Hm."

"Tabitha Galavan isn't too fond of me."

"Is that because you're not fond of her?"

"I also want to rip out her spine and shove it down her throat," Sylvia admitted sweetly; her smile made Jim uncomfortable.

"Is that what you really want to do?"

"Yeah."

"It's just hard to find someone who doesn't talk about my sister like she's—"

"—Something you can pick out of a deli line-up?" Sylvia finished, smirking.

"Yeah." Jim said, cringing for both of their sakes.

"Well, you know. There's at least one other person who can understand where you're coming from."

"Oh, really. Who?"

"Oswald."

Jim made a facial expression of agreement: "Perhaps we have more in common than I thought."

"Perhaps you do. How much longer 'til Harvey comes back?"

"Give him an hour."

"I'll give him fifteen minutes."

Sylvia smiled when someone knocked on the door. In that second as Jim opened it, Harvey Bullock came striding in with pizza and beer. When he saw who sat on his loveseat, he opened his arms and said, "Well, I'll be a bitch! It's Little Sister!"

"Hey, Harv," Sylvia greeted, waving at him from the loveseat.

He came over and hugged her as tight as she had hugged Jim.


	19. A Point To Make

Chapter Nineteen: A Point To Make

* * *

"Well, I'll be a bitch! It's Little Sister!" Harvey said happily. He put the pizza and beer on the nearest counter in the kitchenette, and then headed over to the loveseat where Sylvia was seated.

As he did, Sylvia stood and she was strangled to breathlessness as Harvey gave her one hell of a strong bear hug, not unlike the one that she'd given Jim after seeing him out of prison. Harvey took mercy, and let her go, smiling big.

"No one's dead, are they?" Harvey said, glancing between her and Jim.

"No one important," Jim specified as he stepped into the living room to be a part of this friendly triangle.

"Good. The only time we're ever together is when someone's dead or their life is in danger," said Harvey mischievously, grinning widely at Sylvia. "How have you been, Little Sister?"

"I've been. Where the hell were you?"

"I got us dinner. Didn't know you'd be coming over; if I did, I'd have bought wine or vodka. I know you're not a beer person."

"I'm declining either way. I had a bowl of cereal a few minutes ago. And I'm not drinking tonight."

"Why not?" Harvey asked disappointedly.

"Well, unlike you, I do my best celebrating sober. And I have business to deal with soon after this. Jim was just waiting for you to let you know we'll be leaving." Sylvia explained, watching Harvey glance at Jim curiously.

"And where might you two be heading?" Harvey asked knowingly. "Off to cause some trouble?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Jim said lightly, "Don't worry, Vee. We can tell Harvey."

"So much for mystery," scoffed Sylvia, rolling her eyes.

"Off to find The Lady?" Harvey said lazily as he headed back into the kitchen, opened the box of cheese pizza and opened a bottle of beer with the corner of the kitchen counter. "Seems like a waste of time, if you asked me."

"Well, I didn't ask you," Jim said smartly.

"I'd say 'come back to the GCPD'. You'd have resources there. You know, importantly, _me_."

"Barnes would be watching me every step of the way." Jim reminded. "And I can't have that. It's easier if I did things my way for a while."

" _Your_ way?" Harvey repeated, chuckling. "Your way is the 'GCPD way'. Don't you know that by now?"

"He doesn't give me any credit," Sylvia snickered from the loveseat.

"I was about to say—you're doing things the Harvey Way or the Liv Way." Harvey stated with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Finally coming around, huh, partner? Liv, you're not going to bring your boys into this, are you?"

"Dagger and Chilly? No. They're trained for guarding the club and the mansion. Not this sort of thing." Sylvia said.

"Probably wouldn't hurt bringing in some muscle. People that worked for The Lady are all professional hitmen."

"Well, I take a personal offense to that," Sylvia said, mimicking a tone of hurt. "I mean, I used to work personally with Victor Zsasz. You'd think I'd get some credit as being a professional hit-woman."

"I'm sorry, Liv. But they're pretty big."

"Size means nothing," She muttered, her tone relaying some passive aggression. "I'm stronger than either you and Jim put together."

"No argument there." Harvey held up his beer and slice of pizza in surrender. "Still, I think you might want to take some of Uncle Harv's advice."

"What advice?"

"My advice, since you so sweetly asked, is to take a lookie in the Whammy Drawer. You might find something you like."

"Harvey, out of context, that sounds like an introduction to a porno."

"Well, if that's where we're headed…." Harvey chuckled slyly, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

Jim groaned, "Harvey, stop…."

Sylvia rolled her eyes at the both of them and walked towards the desk drawer that Harvey had been dropping hints about. She and Jim took a look. Ninja chucks, brass knuckles, knives galore, a baton, screwdrivers….a little bit of everything to make a strong-headed person talk. Jim took a pair of brass knuckles, the baton; while Sylvia still searched.

"I hope you don't take too long before coming back to the Force," Harvey sighed, crossing his arms and leaning his back against the wall. "I've been training Alvarez, and it's like trying to teach a halibut to fly a plane."

"Do you have anything sharper than a knife?" She asked, still moving shit around in the drawer.

"What do you plan on doing, Liv? A knife's gonna do whatever you have in mind, trust me."

"What if I wanted to sodomize someone?"

When there was no answer, she looked up from the drawer and saw Jim and Harvey staring at her, startled.

Sylvia looked between them: "What? Nothing makes a man scream louder than the idea of having something thrusted inside their asshole."

"That's disturbing," Jim mumbled, clearing his throat.

"Personal experience, Little Sister?" Harvey chuckled.

"I've never done it to someone I _hated_ , if that's what you're wanting to know." She returned, winking at Harvey, who let out a very low whistle while Jim shuddered.

"Can we go!" He said loudly, making Sylvia look at him.

" _Now_ who's being impatient?" Sylvia simpered. "I'm still looking. Just take a squat and give me a second."

Jim busied himself with polishing and cleaning his firearm while Harvey approached Sylvia, leaning the lower half of his back against the desk. She acknowledged him, lifting her gaze to meet his briefly before she admired a butterfly knife, whipping it out expertly before folding it back just as beautifully.

"So, tell me, Little Sister. How have you _really_ been?"

"Like I told you, Harvey. I've _been_." Sylvia said, imitating his interested tone with a cynical one of her own.

"I hear you've been busy, little Lark."

Sylvia gave him a look: "Why the _hell_ are people calling me that?"

"You're a show girl, darlin'. A singing sensation, a dazzling dancer…"

"A pissed off performer," Sylvia uttered underneath her breath.

"That, too. You've made something of a title for yourself."

"Funny how I'm the last to know about it."

"Well, now you know."

"Yes, _now_ I know." Sylvia returned, placing the butterfly knife back in the drawer. "What's your point? I'm assuming you _do_ have a point. Don't you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"And it is?"

"You've been busy."

"Always. It's becoming a personality trait of mine."

"People have betrayed you…."

"Mm-hmm."

"So, you know about Nygma, huh?"

"I do."

Sylvia took out a large flashlight that matched her liking. She looked at Harvey crossly.

"What _is_ your point?"

"Ed was your friend, wasn't he?"

"Yes. He was."

"And he framed Jimbo."

"I know about that." Sylvia responded irately.

"How do you feel about him now?"

Sylvia glared at him.

"You have a point to make, Harvey, I hope you plan on making it _now_. You're starting to vex me, and whatever you're implying, I don't fucking appreciate it."

Harvey shrugged.

"All right, Lark."

"Stop _calling_ me that! I'm not a fucking lark—"

"—Calm down, calm down. I was just teasing. Anyway, I'm just saying that between that blonde you killed wanting Jimbo's file, and Ed showing his true colors, I'm thinking maybe you should do some background checks on your own people. I mean, for your safety."

"That's sweet," said Sylvia sarcastically. "But I feel like there's something else you want to tell me."

"I care about Jim." Harvey said, leaning forward and speaking quietly so the subject of their conversation couldn't hear their discussion. "He's like a brother to me. Once I start feeling like you don't appreciate him as much, I'll start refiguring how I feel about you."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes at him.

"Why do I feel like you're threatening me?" She said carefully.

"I'm not threatening. Just reassuring. But you _can_ see where I'm coming from, can't you? I mean, look at the facts, Liv. First, your best friend ends up being a murderous psychopath who frames your own brother. You're married to the Penguin, who—by the way—has done plenty to our people to get the chair. _Your_ people—Dagger, for example—have a long record, longer than most. Not to mention that Chilly guy still owes Falcone for all the money that he ripped off."

Sylvia glanced at Jim, who was idly doing what he could to forget the inserting-objects-into-butts conversation. He was concentrating on nothing more than the weapon in his hand, oblivious to the heated discussion taking place between his mate and herself.

"Were you _this_ protective of him when Fish was doing her own thing?" Sylvia asked icily. "When you were forcing Jim's hand, forcing him to shoot Oswald? Threatening to get rid of Jim if he didn't do what Falcone wanted? Yeah….so _brotherly_ of you."

"That was a long time ago, Liv. And Fish _did_ hold a special place in my heart. As do you. But you're married to the guy that killed her, aren't you? That really changes things. It changes a man."

"Now, _that_ was a long time ago—Oswald killing Fish. It's like you forgot that ever happened until you need a reason to come against me. Why does knowing all of that suddenly gives you the gall to threaten me?"

"I'm just putting it out there."

"Yeah. So let me put this out there too," Sylvia snapped. " _You've_ turned against Jim more times than I have."

"Fine…." Harvey relented, frowning a little. "I'll give you that. You're right; you've been there for Jim when the rest of us weren't. But you _are_ married to the freak—" Sylvia's eyes narrowed at Harvey angrily—"and you've been running things pretty good in the Underworld, with or without him. Makes me wonder if you're still gonna be there for Jim if things start turning around."

"'Turning around'? What the hell do you mean by that?"

"What I mean is: What if the person who killed the Wayne kid's parents are _your_ people? Jim and I will be coming after them… _personally_. And then we'll be coming for you."

"Then go after them. If my people are responsible for putting Mr. and Mrs. Wayne to death, they deserve it. Even better: _I_ will deal with it. So, don't worry about me, Harvey. I'm the last person you need to worry about when it comes to Jim's health."

Sylvia closed the drawer and stopped right beside Harvey, leaning in so only he could hear her: "And the next time you threaten me again, I will be the _last_ person you'll ever talk to. Trust me on that."

Harvey smiled. "I guess I deserved that."

"I guess you _did_!"

Harvey patted her back as Jim came towards them.

"You find something?" He asked impatiently.

Sylvia held up a blow torch and a flash light.

"You're carrying _that_?" Jim questioned, eyeing the blow torch uneasily.

"Why not? It's intimidating, just look at it. Plus, I've not used one of these beautiful babies since I was a teenager." Sylvia said lovingly. "No one forgets their first time…using _this,_ I mean. Well, that and the other thing."

"Would you stop?" Jim snapped.

Harvey chuckled, "She's a riot."

"She's something." He muttered, rolling his eyes. "Let's go."

Jim went through the door. Sylvia leaned towards Harvey, who watched her steadily.

"See you later, Harvey."

"Remember what I said, Little Sister."

"Don't worry; I'll keep our boy safe." Sylvia said, grinning widely at him.

Harvey watched her leave, and he closed the door on their way out.


	20. A Riddle With An Answer

Chapter Twenty: A Riddle with An Answer

* * *

Torture was probably an understatement. Between Sylvia and Jim, they had interrogated 20 different assassins, all saying the same thing: none of them seemed to know where The Lady was taking up residence. It was a full day's work, and it all seemed completely mundane. That was until someone fed them a location: The Artemis. A club that was known for female endearment, but male-bashing and war-mongering.

They stood outside the club.

"How long do you suspect it'll take before they realize who they're dealing with?" Sylvia questioned.

"A few hours."

"Well, for you, maybe. But I can be very persuasive. And it's an all-woman's club. I think I have a better chance of finding her."

Jim said coolly, "Well, I can trust you, can't I?"

"Yes. You can. So, try it for a moment, hm?"

Jim encouraged her to go on. He agreed to wait a few hours, if need be. When all was said and done, Sylvia came out of the club in less than twenty minutes with a satisfied look on her face. Jim stared at her in disbelief that she had no blood on her or had acquired any injuries.

"Did you get the name?" Jim asked eagerly.

"Yeah."

"Do I even want to know how you managed to get it?"

"You can know, if you ask."

"Why do I feel like it's something I won't approve of?" asked Jim knowingly.

"Because you probably wouldn't."

"Did she suffer?"

"Well, jeez, I didn't _kill_ her. What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Well, what did you do?"

"I offered her money," Sylvia responded simply. "She knew who I was, what I did for a living. I bought her off, and she gave me the name. Simple."

Jim grinned despite himself: "I knew I could count on you."

"You can always count on me. What are siblings for?"

She and Jim started down the street. It was a quiet night, oddly enough. Taking into consideration how quick it had been, Jim was feeling the anticlimactic shock; things never worked out quite so easily, especially when it meant bending the law.

"You didn't tell me everything, did you, Vee?"

She looked at him reproachfully: "Why on earth would you think that?"

"You did more than just offer her money."

"Did I?"

"What else did you offer her?"

"I kept _you_ out of the deal, if that makes you feel any different."

"That implies that someone else is involved."

"I _can_ influence people without getting others involved, you know," Sylvia reminded, aloof. "Not _everything_ has to involve putting lives in danger."

"Well, if we were talking about Penguin or myself, I could believe that. Strangers seem to be fair game to you."

"I told you. I've had to do things differently since I started running things by myself." Sylvia reminded calmly. "It's a dog-eat-dog world in Gotham, but every now and then, you find a person who turns out to be a pussy. And The Lady—as people call her—turned out to be one. She wanted her reputation and her weird assassin business back, few people in her employ, and she wanted money. I gave her money so she can get her life back on track."

"And there was an exception, I hope?"

"Yes, of course, there was."

"And what was it?"

Sylvia said firmly, "No cops. She could order a hit on anyone except for police officers, my husband, and myself. Everyone else…fair game."

"You should have gone into more specifics," Jim cautioned.

"Concerning what I have done in the past and what lengths I will go to make sure no one hurts my family. I didn't have to get too specific. A woman like her is smart; she won't put her own life at risk, not even to protect clients. Odds are, if I hadn't been so generous with finances, she'd have turned against me and I wouldn't have found out that the man you're looking for goes by 'The Philosopher'."

"What is 'The Philosopher', a nickname?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"That's more than what I had," Jim said hopefully.

"Yes, but that's just another goose chase, isn't it?"

"For now, yes."

Sylvia patted his shoulder: "Well, you're more than welcome to go on that goose chase."

"You're not going to find him with me?"

"If you get a name, I'll be more than happy to torture and punch the living daylights out of anyone you bring me. Otherwise, I have a kingdom to rule, and an old friend to visit."

"You're going to visit Ed?"

Sylvia said coldly, "He framed you and pretended to be my friend. I believe a visit is overdue, don't you think?"

"You can't lock the door and turn off the cameras—you're not in the GCPD station, you know, when you go to Arkham."

"I don't plan on hurting him."

"You say that _now_." Jim quirked an eyebrow. "What's to stop you from kicking his ass if there's no one to pull you back."

"I talked to Oswald when he was still in; you can't find one single fucking room _without_ a guard." Sylvia said blatantly. "I'm sure that Ed's situation will be no different. If Strange doesn't want a lawsuit, he'll have one if Ed isn't protected. The man might be incarcerated in a loony bin, but I'm sure it has only made Ed wiser."

Jim wrapped an arm around her shoulder, bringing her to him and kissed her forehead.

"I'll see you later, then."

"Love you."

"Love you too." Jim said, grinning when she pushed him away from her playfully and then they parted ways.

* * *

On the clock, it read 12:31 P.M.

But in Arkham Asylum, time was an illusion.

Edward Nygma was able to figure that one out really quick. The guards and Hugo Strange told the 'patients' when to get up, when to eat, when to engage in therapy (if an intellectual would call it 'therapy'), and when to go to bed. The only interesting thing that ever happened in the hospital was during 'social' events, during which the patients were permitted to engage one another in conversation. Conversation was rare…normally, Ed found himself watching _other_ people try to engage in conversation.

It was more interesting than having one with, say, the child-like wonder, Aaron, or the others….Aaron, and Rudy, the patient who had five different personalities operating within the same catalyst, were the only patients that Ed could properly tolerate….them, and a kleptomaniac woman who went by the name of Sharon.

None of them were worth the stimulating conversation, but Ed found them to be the most tolerable…more than Strange or Ms. Peabody anyway.

That didn't stop him from trying to gain their favor—not that they appreciated it. The only time Dr. Strange or his apathetic nurse ever took interest in him was during these rancid therapy sessions, during which Strange discussed possibilities of ambitious rehabilitation that Penguin had no doubt undergone and of which Ed had no will or interest in participating.

So, they left him alone.

He was observing the engagement of social gatherers from a corner, standing by his lonesome near the fenced walls when a guard approached from behind, tapping the fence with a flash light. His reverie had delved so deeply, Ed was immediately irritated with the guard's blatant interruption and he gave him a heavy-lidded glare.

That was until the guard said gruffly, "You got a visitor, Point-Dexter."

"Oh, how interesting." Ed responded, grinning toothily.

The guard opened the cage, forcibly pulled Ed out of the room, and guided him down the hall to a larger room. The room itself looked no different in comparison to the other plain rooms he'd occupied beforehand, but Ed found the accommodations to his liking; especially when the guard removed his wrist shackles.

He sat in the chair provided to him, crossing one long leg over the knee of his other and smiled greatly when the door opposite of him opened to reveal a familiar face.

Sylvia Cobblepot approached the table, wearing a low, off-the-shoulder, navy blue blouse; the sleeves trailed off in magnificent drapes; she reminded him of a vampire queen…She met his eyes with a less than fascinated gaze. If she were anything like the creature of the night, Ed was certain her fangs would be extended so that she could bite him.

She'd taken upon herself to be a little nice to him, placing a bottle of Mountain Dew in front of him while she drank a bottled coke. Ed waited for the guard to poise himself just beside the door, which closed upon her full entry.

A few minutes passed during which neither party spoke.

Sylvia sat opposite of him, her leg crossed over the other, mirroring his seated position. She gazed at him for a long time, her eyes taking in his black-and-white stripes, the number on his uniform, the curliness of his untamed hair, and the calm tranquility of his disposition.

"How have you been?" Ed was the first to speak.

Sylvia gave him a sarcastic smile: "I've been better. You?"

"Same."

"How nice." Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes. She gave him another once-over look, adding, "You look different when you're not wearing a shirt and tie. Or a sweater."

"I feel like I'm wearing a trash bag, to be honest."

"Maybe that's what you should have been wearing all along."

"Meaning?"

"It was my sarcastic way of calling you 'garbage'. A smart man like yourself, I thought you might have caught it."

"I did, in fact." Ed returned smoothly. "I was giving you a chance to retract it."

"Oh, you mean to 'take it back'? I don't think I owe you that kindness." Sylvia said smartly—the harsh tone that he had been expecting all along was slowly surfacing, and the ice in her eyes came forth to its full potential.

Ed cleared his throat. He thought after killing a few people, he wouldn't have this feeling anymore. That desperate need to gain her approval. Despite his habitual way of trying to repress his feelings for her—nay, to bury them in sarcasm—had done nothing for him.

"I thought you were my friend," Sylvia said quietly, looking at him.

Contrary to what he had been anticipating, Ed noticed she didn't look at him like she hated him. In fact, he wished she did. Instead, she appeared hurt.

"I didn't do anything to _you_." Ed reminded. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Well, fun fact: ya did." Sylvia replied none too gently. "You put my brother behind bars."

"He's out now."

"Yeah!" She snapped, suddenly standing and scooting her chair back with a screech. "Because _you_ were founded out, jerk!"

Ed blinked.

He leaned forward; his hands stretched outward on the table.

"Sylvia, he knew about Kristen. It was only a matter of time before—"

"—Before he caught you— _Yes_ , it was only a matter of fucking time!" Sylvia shouted. "And you knew that! But you panicked, _just_ like I thought you would, Ed! So instead of finding a way out of it, you fucking **frame** my brother! Was that your fucking plan!"

Ed shrugged: "Honestly, I didn't think I'd have been able to pull it off if your brother hadn't been so convincing."

Sylvia's eyes shifted. Her face suddenly became calm, like all her anger had suddenly been extinguished, taken out of her in a single go. This made Ed's heart beat quickly: whether that was because he was intoxicated by her passionate rage or he was undoubtedly intimidated by it, he wasn't certain which accounted for the acceleration of his heart rate, but he knew it.

She leaned over the table, eyes glaring daggers.

"You framed Jim for a crime he didn't commit!" Sylvia said hatefully. "He lost his job—he lost a _child—_ and you're _proud of it!_ Who the hell are you, Nygma!"

"I am who I have been trying to be all this time!" Ed snapped, getting to his feet. "I wanted to know what I was too, and now I do!"

"You're a liar and a cheat," Sylvia said, pointing to him. "Congratulations."

"I never cheated—"

"You cheated _me._ You lied _to me_. Just when I thought I had you figured out, you turn around and do this to me! What the hell did I ever do to you, Ed?" Sylvia responded hotly.

"Nothing, you did nothing to me," He was trying to reassure her, his hands waving.

"I cried on your shoulder, you told me I had nothing to worry about. If I had known I had to worry about **you** turning on my family, I wouldn't have been so fucking complacent, so **stupid**!"

"Sylvia—"

" _You were my friend, Ed, and I trusted you!_ "

"—I didn't mean to hurt you—"

"You may not have meant to, but you did," Sylvia responded angrily. "Do you have any idea what I have gone through since Jim was put away? That, and Oswald getting put into Arkham and him getting released, and just every fucking asshole who is trying to take Gotham away from me…You were the last person I thought who would ever go behind my back and hurt me this way. So you didn't mean to hurt me—you framed my brother for a crime he didn't commit. A crime that _I_ was guilty of, that you _knew_ I was guilty of—and he couldn't say anything because he was protecting _me_!"

Ed was at a loss for words. He hated it when Sylvia was mad at him. It would have only been a matter of time before she found out what he had done. Still, he hadn't expected such an emotional outcry from her…then again, if he hadn't expected it, how well did he know her?

At some point, Sylvia had calmed down and she merely stood in front of Ed, who was seated uncomfortably. He didn't know what to say—what _could_ he say. Anything that came out of his mouth was an apology or a stammered excuse for his actions. And anything he did say would throw her into another temper tantrum.

Sylvia stared at him, then she shook her head.

"I don't know what I was expecting from this visit," She said tiredly. "I don't expect anything from you. I just wanted you to know how much you hurt me."

Sylvia was about to turn away, to leave him, but Ed grabbed her wrist. Slowly, she turned to look at him. Dangerously, her eyes met his, but he didn't falter. He didn't regress. Instead, he looked straight in her eyes and said, "I'm sorry, Liv. I didn't mean to hurt you. You were right; I folded under the pressure, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

Sylvia's lips tightened. She jerked her hand out of his grip.

"The fact that you framed Jim doesn't upset me nearly as much as the fact that you lied to—my—face," Sylvia said painfully. "You stood there, and told me that you didn't have any idea who was behind the crap happening to him. And it's not you lied to make me feel better; you just didn't want me to find out it was all your fault. You weren't thinking of anyone but yourself when you framed him."

"How can I make it up to you?" Ed said quickly, looking up at her.

Sylvia frowned. For a second, she was silent. That bitter, stony silence.

"Please tell me what to do."

His voice betrayed him as his words came out desperate.

Finally, she spoke.

"You can have me but cannot hold me; Gain me and quickly lose me. If treated with care I can be great. And if betrayed I will break." Sylvia said quietly. "What am I?"

"Trust."

"I still want you as my friend. But in order for that to happen, I'll have to be able to trust you again," Sylvia said darkly. "When you find a way to make it up to me, you let me know."

And with that said, she left.

Ed stared after her.

Suddenly, this desolate cage—this hell—had become a darker nightmare.


	21. Galavan Dies Again

Chapter Twenty-One: Galavan Dies Again

* * *

Sylvia turned on the news, and while she always expected some macabre story about a man getting beaten to death in the alley or a child orphaned in the middle of the night, she stopped sipping from her glass of vodka when a female News Reporter spoke; as she did, the screen flipped to an impossible view of a man who appeared to be Galavan, dressed in leather and looking unlike himself, hopping rooftops, landing on vehicles.

" _Captain Nathaniel Barnes remains in critical condition at Gotham General after suffering a violent attack by a masked criminal late last night. So far, no arrests have been made but reports coming in from within the locked down GCPD have confirmed that the masked man is, in fact, former Mayor, Theo Galavan. Searches continued throughout the night, but as of right now, Galavan's whereabouts remain a mystery_."

Sylvia stared at the TV.

Dagger and Chilly, who stood inside the Meeting Room with her, glanced at each other with the same expression, wondering the same thing: _Did_ they hear that correctly? _Was_ Galavan was alive? Granted, the man dressed in leather and bounding from one building to another had called himself 'Azrael'. Perhaps it was hearsay, but if the GCPD had confirmed it, it was 90% true.

"Only in Gotham," Sylvia sighed, shaking her head.

Mr. Bell shot through the doors in distress.

"Miss Sylvia! Miss Sylvia!"

"I know, I know. I saw it," Sylvia returned calmly, gesturing to the television.

Mr. Bell calmed himself, straightening his tie, as he stood behind her throne, watching the tale of woe with her. A depiction of yesterday's news repeated on the screen, showing a close-up of Galavan's bloody face, which made Sylvia frown.

"A man like that doesn't know when to stay fucking dead," She said snidely, putting down her drink on the table. She glanced at Mr. Bell. "Does anyone know where he is now?"

"No one. No one does."

"Well, that's disappointing."

A loud voice that came from the front door and echoed all the way through the mansion, shouted: "I'm the GCPD for _crying_ out loud! If you knew what's good for you, you'd back the hell off!"

Harvey Bullock stormed inside the room, looking more disheveled than the last time Sylvia had seen him. When he came through the doors, Dagger, Chilly, and Mr. Bell pulled their weapons from the holstered pockets on their belts, and cocked, and aimed their guns at the bounding detective, who was momentarily surprised by their reaction…for whatever reason that might have been.

Harvey held up his hands and said with a chuckle, "Hey, now…I'm here on a friendly visit."

"You might want to lower your voice then," Sylvia offered, reclining back in her seat.

Harvey gave her a look, lowering his hands to his sides: "Have you seen the news?"

"I just heard." Sylvia answered flatly, turning off the TV. "Galavan's alive. Who would have thought, right?"

"And he's nowhere to be found."

"Meaning?"

"I think you know what I mean."

"I'm getting pretty tired of your quiet threats," Sylvia said patiently. "While you're changing the volume of your voice, would you ever so _kindly_ change your tone?"

Harvey gave a polite (slightly sarcastic) bow in her direction, considering her suggestion. _He_ may be the GCPD, but currently, he stood in a room full of guards who not only despised police officers but were ready to die for their mistress in any case Sylvia gave the word to start and finish a war.

Smiling at his submission, Sylvia continued: "I know what you mean, but you're wrong. I haven't the faintest idea where he is."

"You don't?"

"No. I don't. But if I did, I doubt I would be telling the police."

"You still want him dead, don't you?" Harvey said humorously.

"Of course, I do."

"And you're telling me you don't where he is?"

"For the third time: No. I don't know where he is."

Suddenly, coming up behind Harvey Bullock was Jim, who was breathless as he caught up to his partner. He bent down at the waist, hands on his knees, leaning forward as he attempted to catch his breath, looking up at Harvey with an unhappy expression.

"I told you," Jim said through gritted teeth, "to _wait_ for me."

"Well, you were taking too long, Jimbo."

"I was _five_ minutes away."

"See, that was still too long," Harvey debated, shrugging carelessly. "It doesn't matter anyway. Little Sister doesn't know anything. She _just_ found out, she said."

Jim, who successfully managed to catch his breath, looked at Sylvia as though she'd just popped out of the ground like a dandelion. Sylvia smiled at the both of them.

"I don't listen to the news _every_ time I walk into a fucking room," Sylvia explained, standing. "I try _not_ to watch the news anymore. That has probably added five more years to my lifespan."

"So, you don't know where Azrael is?" Jim questioned.

"Who the fuck is Azrael?"

"The guy leaping from rooftops, the same man that shot the captain."

"Galavan, you mean."

"Yeah. _That's_ Azrael." Harvey said pointedly.

"Well, I don't know who the fuck _Azrael_ is, but that's _**Galavan**_." Sylvia insisted.

"That's not what the newspapers are calling him—"

"—Harvey, I swear to god—"

"—But 'Galavan' it is!" Harvey finished, grinning at her.

"You know," Jim said curiously, "There's _one_ person who might know where he is."

"Well, you told me that your sister would know," Harvey reminded sarcastically. "I'm starting to think your detective skills are dwindling down to the bare bones. You've been out of the job too long, brother!"

"I told you that Sylvia would _want_ to know where Galavan is—never did I say that she knew his location. _Your_ listening skills might be 'dwindling', Harv."

"Hey, hey, I _know_ what I heard." Harvey argued, pointing at Jim.

"Yeah, you know what you heard," He chuckled. He turned to Sylvia, who stared at them with an increasing annoyance: "Who knows Galavan better than anyone?"

"His mother," Sylvia returned apathetically.

Harvey shrugged: "Well, that's not far from the truth."

"His _sister_." Jim emphasized.

There was a meaningful pause between Harvey and Jim before they turned in Sylvia's direction. Expectations.

Sylvia sighed and languidly stepped behind her chair, crossing her arms over the back of it, saying, "You want to know where Tabitha Galavan is, don't you?"

Harvey and Jim glanced at each other, then nodded, both verbalizing a strong 'yes'.

Carelessly, Sylvia drawled, "Why would I know where she is?"

"You've been keeping tabs on her," Jim stated knowingly (Harvey gesticulated to Jim with emphasis.) "Her _and_ Butch. You told me yourself."

"So, I have. But that was more for my benefit, not yours. She has been a forever pain in my side since I met her. A thorn _that_ big never ceases to cause me pain even when she's nowhere near me. Still, I like to keep an eye on her, in any case she wants to try to contest me again. But that's enough about me: You want to find Tabitha so you can find Theo, so you can arrest him," Sylvia said, looking at Harvey. "I want to find Galavan, so I can have the luxury of killing him a _second_ time."

"Vee—" Jim began, but she cut him off.

"Don't 'Vee' me," Sylvia snapped. "It's _literally_ a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to kill a man a second time, a golden opportunity; and I'm shooting for the stars, babe."

Harvey sighed impatiently, "Would you just tell us where—"

" _Harvey_ …." Jim warned.

Harvey held up his hands with a scathing noise and he decided to let Jim work out his own plan. The detective stepped off to the sidelines to the other side of the room, looking at the

different knickknacks on Sylvia's bookcases while still listening to the conversation.

Sylvia minded Harvey before turning to Jim, expecting him to butter her up.

"You're in the negotiating business, aren't you?" Jim offered, gesturing to her.

"Always have been."

"So, let's negotiate."

Sylvia's eyebrow quirked upwards, and she smirked at him.

"That's something I'd never thought I would hear from you. And that would normally work on me; but our little cop friend already gave up your plans and reasons for finding Miss Galavan. You want to find Theo, put him in jail a second time—"

"—You're wrong—"

"Am I?" Sylvia voiced skeptically.

"Yes."

"I find that hard to believe. Since you're a cop—"

"—You see me right now? I'm not wearing a badge—"

"—And I'm not wearing handcuffs, but that doesn't make me any less a criminal." Sylvia interrupted him. "Not wearing your badge doesn't stop you from thinking like a cop."

She placed one arm along the mantle of the fireplace and the other on her hip, looking very much like a contemplating manager in lieu of a different proposition.

"You want to find Galavan, bring him to justice," Sylvia presumed. " _I_ want to find him so I can kill him; and this time, I'll make sure he stays that way. If you want to negotiate, you're more than welcome to throw some odds my way, but I doubt you'll persuade me."

"Killing him changed you, Vee."

"I've changed _very_ little since killing him the first time. I doubt I will feel any different after the fact."

"What would you have?"

Sylvia blinked and said humorously, "You want to give me something in exchange for saving _Theo Galavan's_ life? He fucked up our lives _more_ than once, James. He tortured Gertrud, and put Oswald through hell—not to mention, if you remember, that he tried to kill you more than once! And _now_ he's put **your** captain in the hospital! He has meddled with our lives too many times, and if you think you can buy me off with some pathetic attempt to appeal to my humanity, you don't know me _at all_."

"I want Galavan dead."

"Which one?"

"Pardon?"

"You have to be more specific." Sylvia offered. "Personally, both of them could fucking eat dirt for all _I_ care. Between Galavan just being his dickless self and Tabitha being a bitch, I could watch them both burn on a stake and I wouldn't lose any sleep. So, if you want to have _any_ Galavan killed, you might want to consider being a little bit more specific."

Jim frowned. "You want to hear my proposition or not?"

Sylvia held her hand out to him with encouragement.

"Azrael or not, Galavan stabbed our captain; he's in critical condition," Jim said darkly. "I want to find Galavan, and I want to make him pay. One way or another. But he's not the same person he was. He can jump from building to building; he has super human strength. You won't be able to kill him with just a gun."

"Is he still a man?"

"Kinda," Harvey answered from behind a sculpture of a Knight, earning a cool look from Sylvia.

"Then he can be killed…. _kinda_." Sylvia reasoned. "But you have an army at your disposal, Jim. You have Harvey Bullock and the rest of the squad at your command. Why would you need me?"

"I need to know where Tabitha and Butch are residing."

"You're a detective. Despite what your former partner would suggest, I personally doubt that your detective skills are lacking. You would have found Tabitha without my help. Yet, you came here anyway. You know I want Theo dead for what he's done to my family. Yet, you came to _me_. All of that said, I just want know why you're here."

"I can depend on you."

"We all know that. What _else_?"

"Things might get messy," Harvey answered for Jim.

"I can talk for myself, you know." Jim said irritably.

"Yeah, I know, buddy. But at the rate this conversation was going, we would have been here til next Christmas." Harvey sighed candidly, smiling encouragingly at Jim as he patted his back. "The thing is, Little Sis" (Sylvia gave a condescending look) "we're in something of a bind. Even after we find Tabitha and then, who knows, we find Galavan, we've still got a monster on our hands. He was dead, and now he's alive—big and bad as ever. And I'm not just talking about personality. He fights dirty."

"You've fought dirty," Sylvia reminded him.

"Yeah, but you can fight dirtier." Harvey responded. "You're good at this kind of thing. You're like a…what the hell are those dogs called—you know, you give 'em a piece of clothing or some kind of meat and they sniff things out—A bloodhound!"

"A bloodhound?" asked Jim, unimpressed.

"Yeah! One of those! Better than any I've ever seen!" Harvey enthused. He took Sylvia by the shoulders and said quietly, "Plus, if there's anyone more eager to see that son-of-a-bitch killed again, it's you, baby doll. You're like an energizer bunny: wind you up, and watch you go."

"So many compliments," Sylvia uttered, half-amused.

"So what about it, huh? Will you tell us where Tabitha and the Gorilla are?"

"I'll do you one better." Sylvia said, scooting her chair into the table. "I'll lead you to her. Should be easy enough. They built something of a fortress just outside a city with few enough guards."

"How many people?" asked Jim.

"Twenty or thirty guards, give or take."

"Twenty guards?" Harvey said unhappily. He whistled low to Jim. "We're gonna need more people, Jimbo."

"Not necessarily." Sylvia said sweetly, gathering her coat from a helpful Dagger.

"We're outnumbered."

"Like I said: not necessarily."

"Why is that not necessary?"

"More than half of them are in my pocket," Sylvia said with a wink. "They will literally let us walk right in."

Harvey looked a little more at ease while Jim gave him a look. Harvey chuckled: "It must be really nice to have a shoe-in with these tough characters. Don't ya think so, Jim?"

"Shut up, Harvey." Jim muttered. But even _he_ couldn't deny that.

* * *

Some five miles outside of Gotham, Sylvia parked Harvey's car. According to her, it was better not to have the guards see a cop's car coming up the road. So, they would walk, instead.

"You pay all of these people just to keep watch on Tabitha?" Harvey questioned. "Must be a nice gig."

Sylvia strode between the two men with both hands in the pockets of her coat, glancing at Harvey with a coy smile: "Before you think I'm made of diamonds, I don't pay them all with money."

"Oh? Well, well, a little bit of Little Sister I didn't know," snickered Harvey.

Sylvia shot him a glare (one that mirrored Jim's as well).

She snapped, "I'm not _sleeping_ with them **either**."

"I was just kidding!" Harvey said quickly, holding up his hands in caution. "I _swear…_."

"Mm-hmm, I'm so sure you were."

"So, these people that work for Tabitha and Butch…but they're really working for you."

"Yeah."

"How does that work?" Harvey asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Simple. They do what Butch and Tabitha want, they tell me what they've been asked to do. I give them money, and they provide for their families: it's that simple."

"You just said you don't pay them all with money."

"It might come as a fucking shock to you, but a lot of them just like my company," Sylvia remarked lazily, as they walked through a gate. "I'm a likable person, if you haven't figured that one out."

"How come they don't offer their services to Penguin so quickly?"

"His management style is Stalinesque. Mine is…."

Harvey prodded her shoulder, encouragingly: "Yours _is_ …? Yours is what?"

Jim chimed in dryly, "She's like a mother to them."

"Ah! So, the people who don't want your money…They want your approval." Harvey sniggered. "Damn, that's perverted."

"Well, it _works_ , doesn't it!" Sylvia snipped.

"So, in a way, you and Penguin have been playing House," Harvey laughed. "How does it go, huh? He's the Dad, you're the Mom. If the children don't want to do what they're asked when Mother Hen asks the first time, Dad bribes them with money—if that doesn't work, they get the rod. Otherwise, they'll do what you've asked because they want Mom's approval? That's what you're telling me, Liv?"

Sylvia rolled her eyes. "In not so many words, yes."

Harvey shook his head, laughing all the way to the door.

Jim silenced him, nudging him hard in the stomach as Sylvia stepped up to the front entrance, approaching three stocky men who eyed her carefully.

"You know who I am?" Sylvia stated calmly.

"Yeah, we do." The middle man said lightly. "What do you want?"

"I want inside." She replied politely. "I have business with Tabitha."

The male on the speaker's right spoke quietly to the latter, during which a debate had begun. It was shut down quickly when the stocky guard on Sylvia's right stepped forward and smiled at her like she was an old friend of his.

"How've you been, Mrs. P?" He asked.

"Great. How are you, Richard?" She returned.

"I've been better."

"How's the wife and daughter?"

"Catty as ever."

"She's in…high school, right?"

"Just entered Freshman year." Richard said, nodding his head, wearing a smile on his face. "She's getting big."

"And you're getting wiser," Sylvia remarked, winking at him. "Probably a good thing too. Girls at that age—fifteen—they can be a real handful."

"You'd know that personally, wouldn't you, Mrs. P?"

"I wasn't _that_ much of a handful," Sylvia said coyly.

From behind her, Jim muttered to Harvey, "Only when she was at home."

Harvey snickered, "So that was none of the time, right, partner?"

Sylvia gave the two men a look before returning her attention to Richard, who was so talked up that he smiled in leniency.

"She's okay, guys!" Richard told his coworkers. "Let her pass."

"But Tabitha said—"

"— _Nevermind what she said_!" Richard snarled, glaring at them. "Who was put in charge?"

"You..."

"And I said 'she's good'." Richard said firmly.

The other guards became submissive and stepped to the side. Sylvia smiled sweetly at Richard, who held out his hand for her to shake.

"Be sweet and compassionate with that daughter of yours," Sylvia said gently. "The first man a girl can trust is her daddy."

"Yes, Ma'am. You know I will!"

She walked past him, saying, "Jim and Harvey are with me."

"Yes, Ma'am."

With that said, Jim and Harvey nodded at the guards as they let them through. Sylvia kept on walking down the hall of a mansion, while Jim and Harvey caught up to her, walking on her left and right.

Harvey leaned in: "Richard, huh? Seems like you have a nice rapport with him. Like you got a friendship, there."

"He was nearly divorced and his daughter is a train wreck," Sylvia mused, smiling a little. "He worked for Fish Mooney, once upon a time."

"Is that one you pay with your approval or with money?" Harvey teased.

"Money."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Really? The way you talked to him…."

"I don't have to pay for everything I want. Sometimes, they just like to have a decent discussion. Manners don't cost anything."

Harvey and Jim switched glances before they came through a door where, apparently, Tabitha and Butch were having it out in not so many words: Tabitha had packed her bags and was trying to leave while Butch was trying to persuade her to stay, saying he'd work on improving himself for her.

"Did we catch you two at a bad time?" Harvey snickered as they entered the room fully.

"Seriously! How do people keep getting in here! Do I have _no_ security at all!" Butch shouted after the surprise had dulled quickly. He turned, saw Sylvia standing there, and that seemed to answer his question altogether.

He greeted her briskly, "Hi…."

"Hello, Butchy. How's the new place?"

"You think you can just barge right in, don't ya?"

"Oh, did that upset you?" Sylvia returned, feigning surprise.

"Obviously. Can't you tell?"

"I don't know," She said sarcastically. "I guess I should, but that's the incredible thing, you know. Because, how would _I_ know what that's like."

" _Guys_!" Jim snapped.

Butch and Sylvia glanced at Jim, who gave them a 'can you stop' expression before he and Harvey turned to Tabitha, who stared at them irritably.

"Why the rush?" Jim asked.

"Time to move on," Tabitha answered.

"Oh, really? Is that it? Or are you worried that Galavan's coming after you too? Don't worry, Butch; it's not you. She's just afraid of her brother. Come on. Help me find him," said Jim softly. "You two hardly left on the best of terms."

"Must have been weird seeing your dead brother show up like a ninja dressed from medieval times," Harvey chimed in, leaning into her so Tabitha glared at him irately.

Slowly, she glanced between them before lowering the duffel bag full of clothes to the floor and then took two steps to a table on which an empty glass and a bottle of whiskey sat. Silently, she poured the bottle one-fourth of the way.

"That thing that stabbed your captain last night was not my brother. It was a three-hundred-year old assassin who went by the name 'Azrael'."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, muttering, "That name again."

Ignoring her, Tabitha continued, "That image I saw on the news—his clothes, the way he walked—that was Azrael. A mythical figure worshipped by the monks who raised my brother. A cold-hearted killing machine that was sent into the night to kill his master's enemies...and he wants _you_."

Jim and Harvey exchanged skeptical looks.

"An ancient assassin?" Jim scoffed.

"A _legend_." Tabitha emphasized. "My family used to tell stories of him."

"You mean, he was real?"

"Who knows. It was three hundred years ago. Probably, yeah."

"So, your brother's gone nuts?" guessed Harvey.

Tabitha put down the glass, approached Harvey and said smartly, "I don't know. You tell _me._ Theo convince you that he was Azrael last night or do you think he was acting? Someone got into my brother's head…It's not a safe place to be."

Jim said gingerly, "If you're right, I want to find this person. But in order for me to do that, I have to find your brother first. So help me."

"If a search team finds him," Harvey added, "They're gonna kill him."

"Or I will," Sylvia muttered, crossing her arms.

Tabitha frowned at her, saying, "Why are _you_ here, anyway?"

"I like gate crashing," Sylvia replied, smiling sarcastically. "Makes me happy, gives me the jollies. As many times as you barged into _my_ home, I figured I ought to do the same. See how it makes you feel? The only difference is that I didn't intimidate your people."

"I think she charmed her way in here," Butch said, glancing back at the front entrance. "I had three people placed outside those doors! And I had ten of 'em on the walkway!"

Tabitha glared: "You've killed my brother once already. Wasn't that good enough?"

"Nah," Sylvia said, shaking her head. "Given the option, I'd probably do it another twenty times, and it still wouldn't be good enough. It'd probably make me feel a little better though."

"Vee!" Jim snapped. "Could you not!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Sylvia returned, waving her hand dismissively at him.

Jim turned back to Tabitha.

"You have to help me find him. He's still your brother, after all. He's blood."

Tabitha considered these words: "The sword that was used last night, the one that broke—it was fake."

"And you know this, how?" Harvey asked.

"The real one belonged to my grandfather. He was an antiquities collector, obsessed with Dumas history. I saw it once. It was beautiful, forged by the monks themselves. It's said to hold supernatural powers. Theo knew this. It's possible he'll attempt to steal it back."

"Does your grandfather still have it?" asked Harvey.

"And where is he?" Jim questioned.

"Gotham Cemetery. My grandfather has been dead for twenty years." Tabitha returned.

Crestfallen looks from Harvey and Jim made Tabitha smile a little, but she added mischievously, "He _was_ buried with his treasures."

"So, we're going to a graveyard?" Harvey said falteringly, glancing at Jim.

"Whatever it takes," Jim said, rubbing his hands together. He glanced at Sylvia, "Coming, Vee?"

"Oh, am I allowed to talk now?" Sylvia said snidely.

Tabitha chuckled, "I guess most _pigeons_ aren't allowed inside because of the useless _noise_ they make."

"Stop calling me that."

"I've heard bird boy call you 'Pigeon' several times," She sneered. "I don't understand why you respond to that one. It doesn't suit you. Perhaps 'Swallow' is better for you. Bet Penguin would like that more, wouldn't he."

Sylvia stepped towards her. Jim and Harvey exchanged uneasy expressions. Butch stepped out of the crossfire, inching away to stand beside Jim. Tabitha smirked at her.

"You really want me to kill you, don't you?" Sylvia said coolly—in spite of her patient tone, her neck and ears had become flushed with both irritation and embarrassment.

"You know I like pushing your buttons."

"You're about to push the wrong ones."

"I think I'm pushing the right ones… _Pigeon_."

"Vee, _no_!" Jim quickly grabbed Sylvia's arm and yanked her back just as she pulled a switchblade from the pocket of her coat, lunging for Tabitha's neck.

Once Jim restrained Sylvia, Harvey grabbed her switchblade.

"Vee, _stop_! **Vee** …hey, hey, look at me… _Look at me_."

She looked at him.

"Don't let her get to you like that. She's just trying to bait you."

"If she wants to die faster and sooner, who am I to deny that type of request?"

Tabitha yawned, "Gonna have to try harder than that if you wanna get to _me_ , little Pigeon."

Sylvia advanced towards her with Jim's arm separating the two women.

"God _damn_ it, Vee, calm down—"

"One day, you're not going to have _any_ guards _or_ my brother keeping you safe," Sylvia threatened, glaring daggers at her. "When that day comes, I'm going to put a fucking knife down your fucking throat and watch you drown in your own goddamn blood, you fucking bitch!"

She turned on her heel and stormed out.

Already exhausted, Jim let out a deep sigh while Harvey, whose eyebrows were raised high, smiled in spite of himself, clearly impressed.

Tabitha looked at Butch, expecting him to act or say something after Sylvia's threat but Butch silently placed his arm around her waist, and encouraged her to keep moving.

Even _he_ thought Tabitha had pushed a boundary.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Sylvia, Jim, Harvey, and Tabitha all stepped out of a car and walked up to a large building along the outskirts of Gotham Cemetery, which was pretty big for all the people buried there. Jim and Harvey managed to become a barrier between the two women as either of them were willing to put a knife in the other's throat at the first opportunity they had.

Behind a locked gate was the Dumas crypt, to which Tabitha didn't have a key.

"You're a Dumas and you don't have a key?" Sylvia questioned sardonically. "What good are _you_?"

"You don't have a key either, you know."

"I'm not part of that decrepit family of yours."

"Right, like your family is all gold and glamor."

"A lot more glamorous than yours," Sylvia said, sticking her tongue out at Tabitha, who returned the childish antic.

"It's going to be a long day if these two keep going at it," Harvey muttered.

Jim uttered under his breath, "Well, at least they stopped trying to kill each other. That's an improvement."

"Compared to what?"

"You got a point."

"So if no one has a key," said Harvey with mild amusement, "how are we getting into this thing?"

Jim looked around, finding a tool shed. He left, shortly retreating with a crow bar. With it, he unhinged the lock from its placement; through the gate, they pressed on. Opening the door to the crypt was easier, all things considered. All four persons entered inside, and the spider webs, rats, and sun-stained glass welcomed their intrusion.

"Dark, dusty, uninhabitable by humans," Sylvia mused. "Like Tabitha's sex life."

"Fuck you." Tabitha hissed.

"Fuck _you_? No thanks." Sylvia said, raising a hand. "Not interested."

"I guess if it doesn't waddle or limp, it doesn't do anything for you, huh?"

"Well, in hindsight, I don't pander to people who follow losers."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means whatever you want it to mean—whichever pisses you off more,' Sylvia said with a cheeky smile.

"Fuck you."

"You keep coming onto me, but I'm still not interested."

Tabitha scoffed, "Go fuck yourself."

"I'll do that when I get back home; in the meantime, you can go find a cactus to blow."

"Not until you find one first."

"Ohhh, nice comeback—where'd you find that one: in your daddy's closet?"

"LADIES!" Harvey shouted, his voice echoing off the burial stones.

Tabitha and Sylvia glared at one another before moving forward and purposely keeping enough distance between them. Sylvia glanced at the stones, wondering how on earth anyone was to know which burial box was one person's or another. No names, no markings, or engravings of any kind.

"This is it." Tabitha said, patting the flat stone of a single coffin. "This one belongs to my grandfather."

Jim circled it, preparing his crow bar for the ultimate dig, but Harvey said nervously, "Hey, hey, wait, wait, wait…I think we're breaking more than a few laws here, don't you think?"

Jim stared at him: "Really? _This_ is where you draw the line?"

"Come on…." Harvey said weakly. "This doesn't creep you out even a little bit! It's friggin' _grave robbing_!"

"Whatever it takes," Jim said with finality. "Do you care to help me out, at least?"

"I'm not touching that thing. Not even getting anywhere _near_ it."

Sylvia spoke from the sidelines: "I'll help."

She shrugged off her coat, handing it to Harvey, who gladly took it and preferred to be a coat rack than to dare disturb the dead.

After Jim broke the lock, he and Sylvia moved the stone lid with equal measure. Sylvia brushed her hands on the lap of her pants after, glancing inside to see a skeleton, holding a beautiful sword. Along with this weapon, senior Galavan (or Dumas) was buried with what appeared to be a music box, a few jewels, and a crown that bore tiger eye rock-stones.

"It was said to be Azrael's sword, up until the end." Tabitha narrated, looking at the sword with a loving gaze.

"He died?" Jim asked.

"No. He disappeared. Azrael is thought to be immortal. Or as the stories say."

"That's all they are though, right?" said Harvey uncertainly. "'Stories'."

Sylvia sat on the edge of the burial box, saying, "If I took any event that happened in Gotham and told it to anyone that wasn't living within a country mile of this city, that's what they'd think it was: a story. 'Former Mayor Comes Back to Life' would make the Top 100 Best-Selling Novels."

"Would you be serious for a moment?" Harvey snapped.

"In fact, this whole thing would be a great episode for Tales of The Crypt. You know, since we're literally standing in one."

"Vee…." Jim sighed, looking at her tiredly.

"Just being candid."

"You're being disrespectful."

"We are desecrating, and literally robbing a grave as we speak, and _I_ am being disrespectful?" Sylvia questioned skeptically. "Please."

Jim rolled his eyes and then slowly pried the sword from the grandfather's hands. Admiring it, he uttered, "It _is_ beautiful."

" _I'll take that."_

Sylvia, Harvey, Tabitha, and Jim all startled to see a man dressed in the leather garb and wearing a metal-like helmet standing in the middle of the entrance to the crypt.

And then everyone reacted: Jim quickly tossed Tabitha the sword, while pulling out his gun; Sylvia snatched the gun nestled between the waistband of her jeans and her shirt, cocked it and pointed it at 'Azrael' while Harvey, who was stuck at the front lines, was thrown out of the way, and tumbling on the stone-cold floor.

Then it became a fire fight, with Sylvia and Jim shooting bullets, all of which were deflected or missing Galavan. Like a shadow, it was as though all the ammo was phasing through him or maybe he wasn't feeling any pain. Either way, the what-could-have-been-a-man advanced towards Jim, and within seconds of the encounter, Jim was thrown over a tombstone.

Then he came towards her.

And her gun was out of ammo.

"Well, I'll be a fucking—ergghh!" She managed and was cut off before Galavan grabbed her throat with a single hand, wrapping his fingers around her neck and hoisting her in the air; her feet left the ground.

"My quarrel is not with you," He said with a voice that reminded her of a machine.

"You're trying….to kill...my brother," Sylvia said with a strangled voice. "So your…quarrel… _is with me_!"

He threw her two burial crates away from him, and she grunted with the impact, feeling her spine strike the stone wall. It wasn't the best feeling in the world, but it could have been much worse. Shaken, she looked up to see Galavan stride towards Jim, picking him up by the shoulders and then burrowing punches into Jim like no tomorrow as he said, "JAMES GORDON: Time. To. Die!"

With one heavy punch after another that made Sylvia cringe, Galavan punched Jim, then threw him again. This time, his body went out the door.

"Oh, god! Jim!" Sylvia called worriedly, running after him.

And soon after, the door close behind her. It slammed shut!

"Tabitha!" Sylvia shouted. She grabbed the door, trying to pry it open, but it didn't budge. "Tabitha, what the fuck do you think you're doing! HE'S NOT YOUR BROTHER!"

Then she stopped for a second.

Why was she trying to go back for a woman that killed her own mother-in-law? That didn't make any sense.

Sylvia's hand dropped from the door. If Tabitha wanted to die trying to bring her brother back to whatever life he had, let her. She had to make sure Jim was alright!

She bent down to stoop by his side.

"Jim! Jim!" She said firmly, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. "I know you're not dead, you idiot! Wake the fuck up!" She slapped him once. "WAKE UP!" Then twice.

"Ow! What the hell, Vee! Stop hitting me!" Jim said, pushing her away from him. "What—where's Azrael?"

"He's not real. Galavan, on the other hand, _is_ real. And that fucking bitch just locked herself inside that tomb _with_ him! Great idea, bringing _her_ along!"

"We have to get in there!"

"I know! That's why I've been trying to wake you up!"

Jim stood, followed soon after by his sister, and he tried opening the door.

"I tried that!" Sylvia snapped. "Don't you think I would have?"

"Well, I didn't know. We have to find something to open it."

"The crow bar's inside."

"You don't know how to pick a lock?"

"It's a fucking door handle—what the hell am I supposed to _pick_!" Sylvia shouted incredulously. "I'm not a goddamn locksmith."

"Then break the door in."

"That's _your_ job, Jim. You're the fucking cop!"

"Well, step back then."

Sylvia dramatically emphasized the importance of giving him space, sarcastically taking three large steps back while Jim sent her a look of derision. With two strong kicks to the door, Jim broke in, only to get brutally pushed to the side by Galavan as he strode past them.

When they'd been pushed to the side, Jim had hit his head none too gently against the corner of the burial box while Sylvia fell over a body, lying on the floor, bleeding.

 _Bleeding_?

"What the…." Sylvia mumbled, lifting her hands to see blood on them. It was only then when she realized who she had fallen on and why. "Tabitha?"

Tabitha sent her a leering glance but that's all she could muster. Jim joined Sylvia on the other side of the bleeding woman, taking Miss Galavan's hand. Running up to help was Harvey, who looked equally concerned for all three of them—at least he didn't mind being in a crypt so much now. He had a phone pulled out, speaking to the GCPD on the other line.

"This is Bullock. I need back-up in the Gotham Cemetery. Galavan's in the wind…again. I need an ambulance. Now!"

"I'm sorry…." Tabitha said through a strained voice. "I'm sorry…."

"For what?" Jim asked.

"I made him remember."

"Remember what?"

"Bruce." Tabitha grunted. Panting, she uttered, "'Death to the Son of Gotham'."

The look on Jim's face scared Sylvia more than what Tabitha had said.

"Stay with her," Jim ordered. "I'm going to find Bruce."

"Jim—" Sylvia began, standing.

"Stay with her—"

"Harvey can stay with her!" Sylvia snapped. "I'm coming with _you_!"

"It's too dangerous! You'll get killed!"

"I'm _always_ in danger, and you're out of your mind if you think I'm going to let you take on Galavan by yourself!" Sylvia shouted.

"I wouldn't argue with her," Harvey warned.

"I know." Jim grumbled. Without another second's consideration, he said, "Fine! Come with me!"

Sylvia and Jim ran out of the tomb with Harvey telling Tabitha, "It'll be okay, it'll be okay."

* * *

Now in Harvey's police car, Sylvia was driving while Jim dialed the number for the Wayne Manor. Sylvia was a mad, crazy driver, but she was _good_ ; she ran all the lights, shot through stop signs, but dodged any and every car that nearly T-boned them. As good as a driver she was, Jim still was cautious, holding onto the 'oh shit' handle occasionally when the close calls came too close for comfort.

"Come on, come on," Jim grumbled.

"No answer yet?"

"None—oh wait..." Jim said, hopeful.

Someone picked up.

"Where's Bruce?"

"Alfred picked up?" Sylvia questioned, concerned.

Jim nodded in answer to her inquiry.

"Alfred, do you know where Bruce is?….Where in the city….All right, well, we need to find him; Galavan could be coming after him….He _was_ after me; Tabitha must have jogged his memory, reminded him of his original mission: Kill Bruce Wayne."

"What a marvelous mission at that," Sylvia said resentfully. "What that poor boy ever did to _him_ is beyond my understanding."

"No, no, you stay there in case Bruce comes home," Jim told Alfred, glancing at Sylvia irritably. "Where's the last place you saw him in the city?"

"Probably in an alley."

"Collins and Delaney," Jim repeated as Alfred informed him.

"Pretty much an alley."

"Vee, shut up! No, Alfred—no, Sylvia's with me."

"Tell him I said 'hi'."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"We're going to try to look for Bruce there. Until then, be safe."

There was a received message of doing the same and then Jim hung up, shooting a hard look at her.

"You didn't tell Alfred I said 'hi'." Sylvia noted she saw Jim's frown. "You're irritated with me, aren't you?"

"How'd you guess."

"Well, aside from your occasional frustrated looks, I couldn't figure. Care to explain?"

"You choose the worst times to be funny."

"Well, at least I make an effort at humor. What are you doing to help the situation? Skulking about?" Sylvia said, twisting her face to look like a depressed, erratic teenager. "What good has that ever done?"

"Forget timing—you were provoking Tabitha earlier."

"She provoked me first."

"When?"

"Honestly, any time I see her." Sylvia admitted. "Her very existence gives me the symptoms that are not unlike the bubonic plague. And she's provoked me _plenty_ of times since we had shown up to her place to demand her help."

"I understand 'Pigeon' is what Oswald calls you—"

"You're goddamn right!" Sylvia said hotly. "And only _he_ is allowed to call me that. No one else!"

"Tabitha's only doing it to get under your skin."

"Don't think I know that, do you?" Sylvia spat. "I know she says it to get under my skin. She's practically a leech by now—but I can't help it. Just because I know she's doing it doesn't make me any less inclined to rip her lungs out when she does it."

Jim sighed, "Well, she's going to be in the hospital now. Does that make you feel any different?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because _I_ didn't put her there," Sylvia said dangerously. "Now if I had been the one to cause her that pain, I'd probably feel a little better about her condition, would I not?"

"You're about to—"

"I saw the sign, I saw the sign, just let me find a place to park."

Sylvia chose the alley itself to park, and she glanced around.

"I don't see Bruce or any characters from a story jumping and slaughtering about. Perhaps we should try a different alley?"

"No. Just go to the Manor."

"Roger that!" Sylvia put the car in reverse, floored the gas until the back of the vehicle struck the alley wall, jacked the stick into drive, and gunned it down the street with its rear end fishing left and right until it straightened out completely.

As she did, Sylvia ordered Jim to get her phone out of her coat.

"Who are you calling at this hour?" Jim questioned.

"Back up," She answered briskly, grabbing the phone from him. She hit the number-one speed dial. It only rang a few times before the other line picked up.

" _Pigeon?"_

"It's me," Sylvia said quickly. "Oz, I know where Galavan is."

"Where?"

"Wayne Manor. Galavan's there—He's trying to kill Bruce. Jim and I are en route. I don't know if I'm going to be able to take this fucker down with just guns alone; We've shot him—god, I don't know _how_ many fucking times, but he's not dead _yet_."

"How long until you're there?"

"Twenty minutes on an atlas, but I can there in less than ten." Sylvia said, baring her teeth as she accidentally mounted a curb. "Goddamn it! Did I just pop a tire?!"

"No! You're fine, just keep driving!" Jim quipped.

"I just want you to know that if I don't make it out of this, you'll kill the bastard—and you'll make sure he _stays_ dead." Sylvia said, mentally slapping herself when her voice came out painfully desperate.

It took less than five minutes to get to the Wayne Manor, even though it had been 20-minute drive. Wasting no time in saying her good-byes, Sylvia hung up.

"There's a .44 in the glove compartment." Jim said quickly before hopping out of the car; Sylvia grabbed it before following him closely. Just outside the gate was Galavan and Bruce Wayne, who was on his knees, struggling to get that last bit of air until Galavan finally let him go.

He was going to kill the child with a straight bullet to the eyes.

Before Galavan could execute him, Jim raised his gun and shot bullet after bullet into him. Sylvia ran past Galavan, grabbed Bruce's arm and pulled him out of the line of fire, meeting Alfred at the car, which had evidently been used to farm Galavan down until it didn't.

"Sylvia—"

"Keep your head down, Bruce!" Sylvia shouted, pushing the boy to Alfred, who, with relief, took him into his arms. The three of them knelt down against the car, watching Jim pull the trigger almost ten times, and Galavan take each bullet until no bullets were left.

And he was down.

Sylvia stood and met Jim at Galavan's wayside.

"Is he dead, do you think?" She asked uncertainly.

"Normally, I'd say 'yes', but now I'm not so sure."

Sylvia cocked the .44.

"What the hell are you doing?" Alfred asked.

"Making sure." She answered, before pointing the barrel at Galavan's body and pumping five more rounds into him.

At first, it didn't move.

"I think he's dead now, dear." Alfred offered.

And then it did. He stood up.

Jim took his gun out and pulled the trigger. Nothing came out. Sylvia sighed, and gave him a look.

"And this is why we check to make sure the dead people are _really_ dead, boys." Sylvia grumbled.

"Aren't you going to shoot him, then!"

"How the fuck can I do that, Alfred, if I don't have any ammo left!" To prove a point, Sylvia pulled the trigger and nothing came out of her gun either.

"Let me see that!" Jim snapped, grabbing her gun.

"You don't think I know how to shoot a fucking _gun_!" Sylvia retorted.

"Maybe it's jammed—"

"—It's not _jammed—_ "

"—You never know—"

"—I'm not a fucking kid with a fucking gun, Jim. I know it's not fucking jammed, and I _know_ it's empty!" Sylvia said hoarsely.

Galavan started stepping towards them.

"You want to insult me right before we get murdered?" Sylvia said hotly. "How _not_ unlike you, James Gordon!"

Jim aimed the gun at Galavan, like it would magically reload. At the same time, Alfred stood in front of Bruce while Jim put an arm in front of Sylvia as though these two loving barriers would shield them from any harm that Galavan would later inflict.

"You should know by now, Jim, that bullets can't kill this monster!"

Jim lowered his gun slowly while Galavan turned to face the owner of the voice, although Sylvia already knew who its owner was as she was grinning widely from ear-to-ear.

Standing with an umbrella in hand, and a smile on his face was Oswald. He clicked the tip of the umbrella on the pavement before lifting it up pointedly, adding, "My last one got stuck in your throat; I'm thinking of shoving this one somewhere else."

Warily, Galavan raised his sword to Oswald's level.

Unaffected by it, Oswald addressed Jim: "A little tip for next time. Always bring the right tools for the job. See you in Hell, Theo."

Advancing on Oswald's left was Butch, holding a rocket launcher. Oswald in his own strolling fashion stepped aside; Sylvia, Jim, and Alfred simultaneously took Bruce and moved out of the way as Butch armed his large weapon, and launched a rocket at Galavan.

After the big boom, what was left of Galavan was now crumpled, flaming pieces on the pavement. Sylvia squeaked and ran to Oswald, happily hugging him around the middle.

Butch glanced at Sylvia warily, uncomfortable. With working with Tabitha beforehand and now his lady love being put in the hospital, and having partnered with Oswald, Butch seemed uncertain as to where he stood where Sylvia was concerned.

She gave him a once-over but said nothing of fact.

"Coming back?" Sylvia asked Oswald hopefully, referring to his return as Gotham's Kingpin.

"Oh, I'm coming back. But not to Falcone's mansion. But _mine_."

"That's a wonderful idea."

Oswald smiled at her: "I thought you would think so." Then, to Jim, he said, "You're welcome, by the way."

After saying so, Sylvia walked back with him to the car, leaving Jim, Bruce, and Alfred all looking at each other with a mixture of relief, confusion…but mostly relief.

Relief that the monster tormenting Gotham was dead, and would never return.

However, unknown to Bruce, Alfred, Sylvia and Oswald, and the GCPD, the madness of Gotham had only just begun.


End file.
